Like writing a diary

I’ve been keeping a diary in some form of another since 1988. Most of them are stored in a printed diary for the year but I have some collections of entries that are written on pages ripped from other books (usually when I was somewhere and I forgot to take my diary with me).

For a big chunk of the last twenty years there is actually an entry for every single day. Sometimes more than one entry as I also have a few diaries where I’ve written random entries in addition to my regular entry. Generally speaking this was when I had issues that needed more space or privacy than I felt my diary gave them.

The diaries are punctuated with ticket stubs, deflated balloons, pressed flowers and other bits of ephemera.

I have entries written when I had glandular fever (I complain of being tired in every entry for the six months proceeding). Entries written while drunk (in one I’ve written every word twice). Entries where I wonder why I wasted so much time worrying about the trivial.

The entries that I find hardest to write are the days when something really exciting happens. A concert. A party. A big trip. A diary writer gets so much more practice examining the tiny details of daily routine and extracting pleasure from them that it’s had to find a way to express something bigger.

And similarly in this vein I write more when my life is stable. So during big chunks of my university years and the years following there are months with either no entries or just a few words here and there. These were probably some of the more interesting (although not always in a good way) times in my life. I was too busy experiencing life to write about it.

Likewise when my life seems to be running quite smoothly and I am not ridiculously busy I write four or five blog entries each week. I examine small daily details. Try to work out the best way to do routine tasks. I get hung up on what to wear or eat. I dramatise where it’s unnecessary. So when my hairdresser and I got mixed up over dates a few weeks ago (I arrived at her house for an appointment and it was all locked up) this would have become an entire post. Probably ending with some soul searching about hair and identity. Instead I was busy rushing off to make use of the spare time and move my job list along.

My blog is for public consumption. My diary for my memories. I’m always impressed when politicians publish their diaries which recount in details crisis after crisis. How do they find the time to run the country and keep a diary? I might not be cut out to be politicians but I enjoy blogging because I enjoy writing and just like the diary it’s written for me first, other readers second or never.