I Don’t Do Diaries

Don't Do

Last month, inspired by a chapter in Shauna Niequist’s Bittersweet: Thoughts on Change, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way, my book club shared things we don’t do.  There was a triumphant gleefulness in the way we declared ourselves free of the things that make our lives heavy: Megan doesn’t watch scary movies.  Ever.  Colleen does not read science fiction or fantasy–do not try and talk about Tolkien with this woman.  Seriously.

I don’t do diaries.  I don’t do journals, either.  During the years before I learned this about myself, I purchased some truly lovely blank books with the intent to fill them faithfully.  Each journal, dutifully begun, accrued only a handful of entries.  I am introspective to the nth degree, but I was never able to make daily journaling a habit.  Re-reading various attempts has prejudiced me against further action.  Free-writing, I’ve discovered, finds me maudlin, and I have no desire to revisit the worst version of a particular moment.  Better by far that I should forget and smile than remember and be sad.

2 thoughts on “I Don’t Do Diaries

  1. I agree. Writing about something sad does not free me. It seems to lock it in time forever and does not let it fade with time.

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