Let me start by admitting that I have no idea what this is.
I volunteered as tribute to keep up with a blog but my well of creative juices has run dry and I have no idea what to consistently write about. There’s really no tangent to steer away from; I’m sort of just on cruise control. But I kind of enjoy writing without a purpose—and let me just clear up any misconceptions: it’s 9:30 p.m., nowhere near Stream Of Consciousness O’Clock. I honestly sat down at my computer tonight with the intention of finding a worthy topic to write about. I actually tried. This isn’t just sort of a product of my delirium; it’s my wide-awake attempt at a blog post. Don’t judge me.
Anyway, writing without a purpose is one of my greatest joys in life, and as all 66 full diaries squeezed into bookshelves in my apartment will prove, it’s the most constant joy I’ve ever experienced. I mean, diary writing has a trace of a tangent—mama drama, boy issues, general teen angst—but it is what you make of it. I’ve been keeping a diary for ten years and even now, I don’t consider something to have actually happened unless I’ve written it down.
I suggest everyone keep a diary—or at least try to. I don’t expect everyone to be at the same psychotic diary-keeping level as me, but it doesn’t hurt to give it a shot. It’s hilarious to go back and read what my 11-year-old self considered noteworthy, and I’m sure in ten years, you’ll be aching to remember what you were like now.