Should you keep a diary?
It's challenging to write in the present tense
Dear Diary,
I wake up before my alarm at 5:20a. It’s blustery. The wind slapping the roof shingles shakes me to consciousness. Douglas firs toss their boughs. I am no longer dreaming; I have much to do. I pull on another pair of socks. Westward, the sky is slashed with black, there are no stars. I am not trying to notice the weather. The world demands my attention.
I go downstairs. I drink a glass of warm water. I heard it’s good for your health and could be an alternative to drinking coffee. But I always prepare coffee. I resist the urge to check my smartphone until I’ve breathed slowly for a few cycles and watered my plants. They are, unfortunately, near death. I’m unsure how to revive them. Brown curls at the tips, lumpy soil. When the topic of a puppy or kitten comes up, I’ve joked that these sad houseplants mean it’s unwise to get a pet. Privately, I’m not certain that’s true. I know a pet is not the same as a limp hot-house basil or a frightened fiddle fig. I am just uninterested in more poop.
My day will have little to do with pets. I have seven browser tabs open, which is reasonable. I have three documents, a handout and lecture notes, and have finished my slides. I have four PDFs open. I double check the DOI and ISBN codes are in Zotero. I write my lecture notes. I pull a few quotes for discussion, for structure, for contemplation.
From Phillippe Lejeune
“Telling the truth about the self, constituting the self as complete subject—it is a fantasy.”
“What illusion to believe that we can tell the truth, and to believe that each of us has an individual and autonomous existence […] when it is the text that produces the life.”
From Jamaica Kincaid
“It is sad that unless you are born a god, your life, from its very beginning, is a mystery to you. You are conceived; you are born: these things are true, how could they not be, but you don’t know them; you only have to believe them, for there is no other explanation. […] Who you are is a mystery no one can answer, not even you. And why not, why not!”
From Ocean Vuong
“I was a fraud in a field of language, which is to say, I was a writer. I have plagiarized my life to give you the best of me.”
I have notes on Catholicism and confession, Protestantism and the impulse to self-write diaries, the mass production of paper, and the Enlightenment subject.
Diary, I never named you, as a child, but I know people do. I did write, on occasion, “Dear me” in my diary entries. The only marker I have of keeping a diary is the date.
This, it turns out, is a definition of diary. Of the day. A series of entries with date stamps.
And an author who does not know the ending to her story. Present tense.
I dress and apply mascara. I don’t spend time deciding what to wear. I have a uniform these days. Slacks and sweaters. The children remember their cello, lunch, coats, and rain gear. One is upset about the way the morning unfolded. I spend a few minutes pretending to be a doll instead of being myself, to brighten the mood. I’m often a convincing doll. I’m much more effective at getting the children to follow my bidding. A couple of years ago, I named this alter ego Francois.
There’s traffic. I listen to the windshield wipers. I don’t turn on the radio.
I find parking in a faraway lot. I can see the Cascades. There’s fog. The rain isn’t heavy. I scuttle across two lots and a muddy trail to use the bathroom in the science building. I consider where I can take my work call. There’s nowhere obvious. I am nowhere near my shared office space. Students are everywhere, ear pods in. I jog back to the car. I wonder how many people use their cars as an office.
The class starts at 11. The microphone works on the first try. The screens glow. The room is bright. I use dark mode on the slides. My promise of pop quizzes is successful in incentivizing attendance. The room is full. I am glad to have their attention.
The topic is the diary. We’ve read the most-read diary of the 20th century. On the first day, I learned everyone had heard of this diary, but, no one had read it. My eyebrows went up so high I touched my hairline. What?
I assigned the book for the following week. College students in a literature class should know Anne’s witty and relatable ruminations about her mother and her father and her birthday and her reading habits and Peter and her anxieties and her boredom and her intelligence. And I get to make decisions like this! A later reading, I tell them, they will choose.
I am wearing a white sweater with black stripes. I am in muddy, low-heeled boots. I am wearing slacks with respectable pockets. I sling my hands in my pockets or behind my back when I walk around the room. This helps me not to touch my face, not to touch anyone. Confident. Body language.
I haven’t eaten. I don’t like eating before I make presentations because I’m sharper and more alert when I’m hungry. I had a bite of cheese and a half apple about twenty minutes before the call. It was enough, but also not enough.
What is most important to remember about the diary, as a form, is that the writer does not know the ending. This does not lend it epistemic legitimacy. It’s marginal. The diary writer is always unsure what will happen next. Suspense is harder to build.
I forget to turn my mobile phone on “work” mode. I try to ignore 13 notifications.
We know the terrible ending to this story.
When you write a diary, I tell the students, you do not know what will happen next.
We’re robbed of her voice with her murder, one student remarks. We nod. We nod. We speak about her as an archetype. We are silent.
We know she doesn’t know her ending. With a diary, we never know the ending. It’s unknown.
—
I return to my car. I open my computer. I write and answer emails. I eat a bagel. I retie my hair. I read essays. I look at the weather forecast. I draw up plans. I take notes. I plot plans. I’m writing this now. Perhaps it’s an act of self-preservation. An act of self-discovery. A gestalt. I just see words. They’re enough, but not enough. I’m writing in the present tense. I won’t edit this.
Upcoming courses
I’m teaching Writing about Past Travels (at Hugo House) Wednesday, Jan. 24-Mar. 6, 2024 | 7:10-9:10p PT | Online | Register! ($302.40/$336). Travel to your past travels, find your past selves, and enjoy the views of retrospect.
Book recommendation
How to write an autobiographical novel
by Alexander Chee
Chee feels like a wise friend. His book—which takes readers to Mexico, to Wesleyan University, to myth, and Maine—is instructive and relatable. By many measures, we have very little in common. It’s the mark of his writerly excellence that I feel so close to him, so warmed, by his essays. He widens the embrace, he includes me. I like, for instance, that he’s reassuring about the unknown. About endings. “Perhaps the only way to escape your fate is to not know it. […] [I]n a yoga class, my teacher had us begin our practice by doing sun salutations with our eyes closed, for as long as we could stand it. ‘What can you trust of what you can’t see?’ he would ask as we moved slowly and then faster, trying not to fall. What can you trust of what you can’t see?” What can you trust when you’re trying not to fall? Perhaps it is the habit of putting words on the page marked with a time stamp. I’ve been writing for two hours. It’s 10:48pm, Jan. 10, 2024. There may be typos. It’s okay, right? Good night, dear diary.
Thank you for reading The Gift.
Until next time,
Monika
The Gift
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"I resist the urge to check my smartphone until I’ve breathed slowly for a few cycles..."
So difficult sometimes, but so very important.