I have an artistic process:
1. Buy journal.
2. Insert large, loopy handwriting. Expect nobody to read this handwriting, but secretly be always kind of suspecting that, after you die, someone will peruse each page and really, really get to know you.
3. Midway through, pause.
4. Buy other journal.
5. Stick journal one in drawer, or on shelf, or in heap. Note: you might have to cram it in.
6. Repeat steps 1-5 ad infinitum.
7. Feel guilty about all the blank pages, but not that guilty. Tell yourself you will always go back to them and fill them in after this journal is full.
I always thought it was really weird. And then this summer, my mother and I were talking around the dining room table when it became necessary for her to, in the course of conversation, confirm or deny that someone had once said something. And she said, “Ooh, wait, I know exactly what he thought! Follow me!” and I did, and she opened her bedroom drawer and it was packed absolutely full of journals.
I said, “Are those… half full?”
She said, “Of course! Then you can always write more later.”
We had never, to my knowledge, talked about this before. So I guess it must be genetic, this chronic blank-page disease. This is important, because though I do it in print, I also kind of do this with blogs. Like I said on the mainpage, I have started probably something like ten different ones, not counting email lists and Facebook notes and fanfiction.net accounts. Not for any real reason, mind. They are not under my real name, so you should probably not go searching for them, especially not if you are exceptionally snoopy. No, I will cut out the middleman and post entries I’ve especially liked here. Of course I’ll also write new ones.
PS: DO people want to actually read others’ diaries, postmortem, or is that just something people do in literature? Are my old blogs incurring any traffic? Is anyone listening?!