Diaries, Journals, Diaries
A diary can be writing feelings down long hand, without the intent of showing it to anyone. It could be a daily record. There are those who have taken the approach of writing to the diary as if a companion in the conversation of feeling - some with the need to ask a polite “How are you?” before the real thoughts flow.
I wanted to cover this topic in January but I was wrestling with my decision. Or, the reality of how my practice is changing and in some ways I am struggling to embrace that. As a very young person I started and abandoned a locked diary or two (with the unfortunate knowledge that the keys to these locks were interchangeable so someone else with a lockable diary could break into my thoughts or I could break into theirs). When I was in the 6th grade, I joined my dad on his Sam’s Club trip and a light blue hardcover diary caught my eye. I wrote an entry that day and the next. Then, every day.
These entries told the story of how I spent my time that day: school, who I talked to, if anyone said anything nice, if anyone said anything mean, who won Project Runway, etc. I often think about my childhood having a moody, queer gothness to it - I was picking at the edges of reality to make sense of it, trying on narratives, and having a sense that I would die one day. If I didn’t write about a day, that seemed to be a kind of death - I was afraid that I was callous with my own life if I let days just slip away. And I wouldn’t want anyone reading the diaries, but my days would be accounted for and preserved in shitty handwriting at least. I generally don’t reread them nor do I want anyone to read or publish them, alive or dead.
After a while, my diary focused on preserving scraps of evidence that people liked me. My pubescent and adolescent years were the first explorations on the internet and official recognitions of affection, embarrassingly via pokes and likes. If my crush talked to me casually, this was especially important and told in detail. Over time, the tone of the diary shifted from true emotional release and reflection to straightforward documentation. Did this, went there, talked to them. If I was traveling or sleeping over, my entries would account for the missing days too. I remember seeing a headline about someone who could remember every day since they were fourteen. I had the data of those days and years, though thankfully, my brain was kind enough to blur the memories themselves. During high school I started a separate hand written notebook - the journal. Instead of the whos, whats, and wheres - it was all the feelings, all the poetry, half essays, notes - all the muck on college lined or graph paper notebooks instead of pretty books. These days, the morning pages too - a practice from The Artist’s Way of writing 3 pages longhand stream of conscious style.
As of October 2nd, I haven’t accounted for my days in the diary. It feels so strange. For the past year or so, my entries covered weeks at a time. I have drifted away from this old friend, from my more documentary writing. Not entirely due to lack of time. When I think of starting again, I think about finishing at least the diary I am working on and leaving no blank pages. Or I think about stopping at a more appropriate time - my 30th birthday as a full circle and complete medium for my youth. Or I think about Anais Nin talking about her attempts to abandon her diary and how she needs it too much. But, isn’t that where the journal comes in? Is one merging with the other?
Letting go of all of these memories, letting it be enough that they happened or that I expressed a splash of feeling instead of all of the facts has been strange. The journal writing, the morning pages has been more prolific and invigorating than it ever has been. There is a new level of focus. Scrounging my mind for the facts and key highlights feels like straining under the weight of a precarious stack of grocery bags and fumbling for the keys without putting them down. And I’m not sure what the point of that is or how it enhances my life. The practice and the focus are evolving and I am following where it will take me.
Like here! I have been playing with the idea of a subscriber only erotic short fiction circulation of the newsletter. Regular smut about no one in particular. Would you be into that?
Winter Cave / Hibernation
In January, I turned 29. Instead of fighting against the current and having a bar birthday, I went with the Korean spa birthday instead. Hot tub, cold plunge, dry sauna, wet sauna, massage, nap room. In February, I finally secured my 5th day and health insurance at the bakery. This is huge considering I elbowed my way in back in August with little to no experience. Four days of bread, one of pastry. I am getting the hang of the piping bag. Perhaps I shall create a beautiful cake one of these days!
Even with these great moments, I have slunk back into a winter cave. Los Angeles has winter for babies, truly a non winter and it’s still hard. It is a quieter time, and I have been more quiet. My schedule, sure, is part of it. Night time events can be tough. But lately I have felt out of sync - I’m ready to be rowdy and there are no appealing events and no one is available. I’m zonked and there’s a plethora of both.
I’ve crawled in, continued along with the book, and gone to bed early. While these quieter months have offered time for reflection on my patterns, they have also offered rest. And maybe, with my birthday philosophy, it’s time to embrace the seasonal swings. I hope that all this rest will come in handy for a bustle in activity yet to spring forward.
i've been keeping a hefty diary this year and while i'm happy to do it, it does feel like a never-ending chore like what you've described. i'm resisting thinking about the "use" of it and just do it, but it does take so much time. i've been hearing about the morning pages and it sounds intriguing, i might try it. how do you like it?