Dear Diary…

I haven’t written in my blog in several days.  Previously, that would have constituted a setback of the most grievous kind, one that warranted nothing less than a complete hands-thrown-in-the-air dramatic “It’s no use!  I’m a loser who can’t finish what he starts!” pity party, after which the blog would remain perpetually lonely and unattended in cyberspace.

This pattern is nothing new at all for me.  I don’t remember how old I was at the time, but as a gift one Christmas, I received a small book with a the word “Diary” etched into the cover.  All the pages were dated, beginning with January 1st, and as a whole, presented a wonderful opportunity to spent a year chronicling my exciting childhood!  It even had a clasp that locked with a small key.  I could write whatever I wanted, and nobody would be able to read the secrets of my heart.

I wanted to plunge right in, but I made myself wait through that long span of time between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day.  Finally, it was January first, and at the end of the day, I sat down at my desk, pen in hand, fresh blank diary page before me, and I began to write.

Of course, I don’t recall what I wrote; I just remember filling the page with words about my day, about what I was thinking and feeling, and probably even with hopes and dreams for the coming year.  I was off to a great start!  The following evening, I wrote again, though a little less of the latter.

My next memory about the diary was of flipping it open, turning past several pages with entries of simply “School” or “Snow”, and quickly jotting down something just as profound, just to get it done with.  I think even that effort was too much by the end of January, and my dear diary made its way to the trash, where it could no longer remind me of the high hopes I’d had only weeks before.

Fast forward 30 some-odd years later, and I find that I haven’t changed all that much.

However, I like to think that I have grown and matured somewhat in recent years.  A lapse in my writing doesn’t have to mean that I’m still a failure; on the contrary, if I allow myself the freedom to write when I feel like writing, not burdened by any particular schedule or output expectations, the process is far more enjoyable to me.  Besides, who on earth can think of anything even remotely interesting to say on a daily basis?  ‘Quality over quantity,’ as my professors have said time and again.  ‘It’s what you write, not how much you write.’

On the downside, though, I also find that I tend to overcompensate for writing lapses by becoming extra verbose in subsequent posts….