The December Diarist

Can writing be fun again?

I have been rereading The Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.M. Delafield.¹ It’s just so delicious—specific and vague, relatable and boggling, all at the same time. In the middle of giggling out loud (out loud!) over a turn of phrase last night, I had a thought. It caught on me like the strap of my backpack getting hooked over a doorknob as I walk past.

This is wonderful. What if I did that? Can I do that?

Do I still know how to put one word in front of another for the joy of it? Is it still wonderful?

I’m not one of the world’s finest diarists, left to my own devices. It’s not from a lack of available notebooks. I have trouble carving the time out. And anyway, I don’t know what the form is for in the social media age. But I’ve been off all social media for almost a month—the longest period that’s been true in nearly twenty years— so maybe it’s for me.

The question, What if I did that? continued to echo in me. I realized it was a different question altogether. It was What if I had fun putting one word in front of another again? What if it was wonderful?

I won’t go into the hows and whys and self-conscious, exhausted explanations about how publishing books in the current climate is extremely hard and not actually conducive to writing good work, necessarily, and how we’re all burnt out and upset all the time on so many levels. Do I need to? Is that the preamble? Have we come to a place where I need to explain, apologize, etc., for what I want to do? Where I have to work so hard to protect my reputation as a happy, productive member of writing society, even though it’s clear from reading almost anyone on writing these days that we’re all struggling? This year’s NaNo seemed like a hopeful turn, but then that mess with forum moderation and the board happened, and that felt like its own kind of death-knell.

In the last few weeks, I have felt the desire to write again. There are plans to revisit the Kensingtons, there are plans to write more stories.² I have the crackling in my fingertips, even if it’s muted compared to what it once was. That’s okay. I’ll start from where I am, with what I would like.

What I would like is to have fun. Social media nearly stripped me of the ability to notice my life. Mining myself for content has always been an uncomfortable endeavor. I overthink it. And now, the entire internet feels sadder and emptier than ever, even as it has been crammed full. The algorithms that run our days and curate our access to our friends in between endless advertising, that feed us adrenaline-spiked controversy while we feed it our earnest desire for human connection and creativity—

It’s bad. I want something else. This is a place I already have carved out of the morass, so I’ll use it.

This December, I will be a diarist. I’ll write once a day, or every other day. I’m going to notice my life and see what’s there that I’d like to share. I might throw in some book recommendations for books I’ve liked this year, or any year. I might talk about therapy or death or crossword puzzles. It’s hard to say. I hope you’re happy to read along.

1. Available here from Oblong, my much-loved local bookstore.

2. The only Kensington novel currently, available here from Oblong, my much-loved local bookstore. (And from Amazon, if you prefer your books kindled.)