I had a dream a few nights ago that I was reading from my diary. My sister was there, I covered the pages with my shoulders as I read aloud. The diary in question was the one I began the summer before I started secondary school, sensually thick— a page per date, white paper and purple lines, a protective plastic cover made of every colour, £14.99– my grandma deigned to purchase. There were no traditional secrets in it, only things that might’ve embarrassed me– a list of my friends from my first month of school, mention of people I found annoying within whichever day, observations– children who always asked for other people’s food, and children who apologised a lot– as a child, you do not know. It was stolen out of my bag a month before I stopped writing in it. I got it back through sulking alone, that wouldn’t have worked in the years that followed. Presumably, only a few pages had been read– the first of which was a paragraph about how God wants us to be ourselves, even if we’d much prefer to be like our favourite pop stars. The diary was what I did for myself— the drawings of the people I knew, the stickers, the felt tips that made mush out of words.
I have been writing, in one way or another, for 2 decades. It is something I can feel at about this time every year. When I approach writing in December, I am scraping across it– there’s more friction than the amount that typically adds value. So please welcome this momentary pause– a two week break, to return early January. I’m giving up, and I’m helping myself. They say nobody can do that for you. I’ll be writing other things within the two weeks– my book, and script for my new site– I’ll be moving to substack next year, and expanding the weekly blogpost into a newsletter with many parts. I’ve managed to reach many of you in 2023, thank you all for reading along; I’ve managed to stay inspired, thank you God!
In the meantime, why not explore the archive, starting with my favourite pieces of the year:
Crushball 