Which is an interesting question, and one I have sometimes thought about. I think the 12 year old me would be baffled at the many ways we have to communicate (this was 1991, remember) and painfully jealous that those means were not available to her, to stay in touch with all her friends in Belgium whom she missed so much. Having said that, she loves writing letters, and is saddened that not only does this seem to be lost in culture generally, but that her older self no longer sits down, fountain pen in hand, to eloquently pour out her soul to her adopted big sister or her best friend, but instead microblogs (whatever that means) for the benefit of strangers. She'd shrug in disgust, actually.
She'd be pleased to know she'd made it back to Belgium, albeit 13 years after originally planned, and that she was spending time with her niece and nephews.
She'd be bewildered at the loss of French as her mother tongue.
She'd also be sorely disappointed that past the age of about 18, writing was to disappear from her life, only to re-emerge many years later, all the poorer for having been discarded all those years. But then, she would, I think, perhaps also be happy that the deep pain which motivated much of it had dimmed.
She'd be impatient to know that this novel was going to get finished, though - that writing was going to become more than just a dream.
How about you?
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