your diary is your best friend

Growing up reading, I used to be the kind of kid who wanted so badly to be a book character. For me, it wasn’t only the allure of the adventurous lives they lead but the way they lived. More specifically, when reading books with the first person narrative, I wanted to be able to think like them. I read more and more and more until it felt as though my head would burst with all this new vocabulary and ideas that I pushed into it. But it still didn’t feel like enough. How could I be like my beloved characters in every sense? (I didn’t necessarily want to fly on dragons or go to boarding school, but I just wanted something to happen for once in my life.)

Sound familiar? I’m sure I’m not the only one who went about their 8-year old days like this. Slowly but steadily the truth managed to find me: my life was interesting. Everyone’s lives are interesting, we’re just not framing them correctly.

For me, the only way to get rid of all these thoughts and ideas was by writing. I started story after story, trying to find a way to put myself onto the page. But none of it worked. I’d write about mermaids, fairies, dragons, lost cities, tropical islands, pirate ships, you name it. I’d cover everything except that which really mattered.

Truth is, your voice will never be truly you unless you write about yourself. And so, I started a diary. I was no stranger to notebooks or journals. As a kid, I would scribble down everything that came to mind. But a diary? That word still had to be redefined in my mind.

I started my first proper diary when I was about nine. I soon gave up, frustrated about how mundane my life seemed. What use was it to write about a paper I had to write for school or an argument on the playground?

At ten, I moved and a lot of new things happened in my life. My little brother and I were sharing a room at the time and we both started to write about our days. We’d give each other ten minutes to write and then would read them to each other. It never became more than just relaying what happened, but it was a rhythm that worked.

At thirteen, I opened a new diary and started writing poetry in it. Sometimes it would turn into poetic prose or simple sentences, but it was never a full-on text.

At fifteen, I opened all my previous diaries and read them. And I had such a laugh. Reading the thoughts of my past selves was such a joyful experience that I decided I couldn’t let my future self miss out on it. And so, I started a proper diary.

Some days, I simply recount the events. Some days, I’m too tired and just write a list of thoughts. The pages are still littered with poems and musings. On the best days, I find a way to channel my thoughts into words that are pleasant to read. The most rewarding thing is reading through it occasionally and noticing that actually, my life is interesting.