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Death of the Diary

“Nothing’s sadder than cyberspace when you’re floating out there all alone, talking to yourself.”

A Tale for the Time Being, Ruth Ozeki

That’s why I’ve been gone so long. I’m back partly because the site looks like a closet without clothes, partly because I want a disciplined writing practice, partly because I have things to say, partly because I missed typing on my laptop. I want to wear out the backspace key and I don’t want to make and name more Microsoft Word files. I want my writing to be readable even if it’s never read. Today is the death of the diary as I know it. The new notebook I’m starting is exclusively for fever writing. Nothing has to be dated because revelations, quotes and ideas don’t squish within the confines of a day. The physical notebook means no more texting e-notes into my phone (painful for my finger joints and my eyes, aesthetically displeasing, and rude in the presence of other people). Unlike fever writing, my diary entries were never for me in the moment – I don’t offload my feelings into them, and I hate catching up which is exactly what it is to begin with the date and proceed to list out in paragraph form my calendar v.2. Each day is not a movie; each day is not even necessarily part of the movie which sometimes pauses for days at a time. I don’t think any day is so standalone complete that it deserves to be narrated from morning to night headed by its numerical name. My movie is made up of small moments and change over time. Every life is not a Great American Novel; every life contains hundreds of possible novels, but a novel only exists where there is an author.


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