For My Eyes Only

“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.”  ― Oscar Wilde The Importance of Being Earnest

So I keep a diary. So what? Writers have done since writers first began writing, and there have been posts from Sassies in the past on this very subject. But the last time I visited a school and asked how many children did, only a smattering raised their hands, and this got me thinking.

Why is my diary as important to me today as it was when I was a child? Has its role in my life changed? And why does the diary form in fiction still hold a fascination for us if many of us are no longer keeping our own?

I could not survive without my diary. An inflated claim? I don't think so. I feel bereft if I forget to pack it on holiday: I have to rush out and buy a new notebook immediately – not for the Wildean reason quoted above, I should add. Ever since my teens, the diary has become less a record of things I have done and places I have visited, and more a place in itself; one of refuge, a sanctuary.

At its best it has kept me sane by allowing me to air thoughts and feelings I knew I could share with no one else. And of course it has meant that I can record happy times that are a joy to revisit – and are sometimes an inspiration for fictional writing. At its worst it has been a seething cauldron of secrets and emotions that were certainly much better kept between its covers than held up for public inspection. But even such supposedly negative material benefits from revisiting, if only to remind me that I have been here before, and all things shall pass.

I have no doubt that keeping a diary has also helped me hone the writing that I produce as a published author. Years ago, when my desire to Become A Writer was something that I kept a well-guarded secret, I would scribble away, feeling that this, at least, was writing of a sort. And it was – it was a rehearsal for the day when I would Become A Writer For Real.

We still love to read diaries. There is something irresistible about spying into the confessional. The first fictional diary that I loved, along with many children of the 80s, was The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, aged 13 ¾. Since then I have devoured many more in this genre, from the hilarious Bridget Jones’s Diary to Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s more disturbing The Yellow Wallpaper. More recently I have roared with laughter at Jo Nadin’s Rachel Riley diaries. And I have been entertained and moved by celebrities giving readings from their real-life journals on “My Teenage Diary” on Radio 4.

So is the diary doomed other than in its fictional form? If so, what effect will the loss of the convention of journal-keeping have on future generations? I am not suggesting that anyone will want to read my diaries (indeed, I very much hope that they will not), but those of famous writers, politicians and commentators have given us much in terms of historical insight and human empathy. And then there is possibly the most famous diary of the 20^th century: that of a young girl who never lived to tell her story, so her diary had to do it for her. Otto Frank had to steel himself to read his daughter’s private words, as he knew that she had never wanted him to do so, and yet he recognized how important they were for the world to see, and thank God he did.

Will we have to rely on blogs for this in the future? And, assuming anyone will bother to trawl the ether for such material, will blogs really give us the same insight as that of diaries, originally not intended for public perusal?

For a while I wrote a personal blog, lampooning my life and my family. It was not the kindest thing to do, but at the time I found it cathartic and liked the way other people connected with it and commented on it. It was a vastly different exercise from writing a diary though. It was, essentially, an exercise in showing off.

A diary is by its very nature lacking in artifice. In a blog there has to be an element of putting on an act to the world, in the same way we do every time we step out of the front door. My diary is something for my eyes only; something kept hidden between those covers, sometimes even under lock and key.

I hope the convention is not dead. I hope that my children are secretly scribbling away by torchlight, under the duvet. And I hope they never get to read my diary, just as I am sure they would never want me to read theirs!


“For obvious reasons, I never told you about my notebook, with a cover as green as mansions long ago, which I use as a commonplace book, a phrase which here means 'place where I have collected passages from some of the most important books I have read.’”  ― Lemony Snicket, Lemony Snicket: The Unauthorized Autobiography

One Girl And Her Dog: Top Dog Stories in Children's Fiction - by Emma Barnes

Some themes crop up over and over in children’s literature. My new book takes lift-off from one of them: the powerful bond that exists between girl (or boy) and their pet dog.

Why are dogs so important to children? Although they plead to have them, in practise most parents know it will be they who do most of the work, while dogs often work out where their walks and sustenance are coming from, and relegate the junior members to mere puppy rank. Yet despite that, from Lassie to Eva Ibbotson’s last novel, there remains something special about the relationship between child and hound.

In my new book, Wolfie, Lucie has always wanted a dog, and her wish is finally granted when her Uncle turns up with a large, toothy, furry “dog”. But is it a dog? Lucie is not sure, although the grown-ups (never good at seeing what is under their noses) mock her claim that the new pet is actually a wolf...

Wolfie is a more dangerous proposition than the average domestic dog. And that’s even before you take into account the fact that she can talk. But in the end, dogs and wolves are both pack animals, and it is the strong attachments they form to their group, and the uncomplicated nature of their affections, that makes them such precious companions, real or imagined, to children.

Some Different Kinds of Books About Dogs 

1) Dog as Friend

For a lonely, often an only, child a dog becomes an essential companion. Perhaps the most famous example (note my pun here!) is George of the Famous Five. A spiky, difficult girl who wants to be a boy, and feels misunderstood by her parents, George is deeply attached to her dog, Timmy. Indeed it is her determination to constantly defend Timmy which sparks off many of her adventures.

My Sam in Sam and the Griswalds is a timid and lacking in confidence – quite unlike George. But acquiring a dog, Biter, is a crucial ingredient in pepping up Sam’s life. And the support of a dog can be important even in adolescence: as in the wonderfully funny but poignant Feeling Sorry for Celia, where Elizabeth has a better relationship with her collie than her own parents.

2) Dog as Ally

Dogs can be equally important to children who, while they have siblings (maybe lots of siblings) are seeking refuge from the rivalry that often brings. Helen Cresswell’s Ordinary Jack has a closer, less demanding relationship with his mongrel dog, Zero, than with his overly talented siblings. OK, so Zero is far from bright, inclined to wee on the floor when nervous and scared of almost everything. But he makes Jack, the only ordinary member of the Bagthorpe tribe, feel tonnes better about himself.

For Peter Hatcher, narrator of Judy Blume’s classic Fudge books, having a dog is offered as compensation for having to put up with endlessly demanding, troublesome younger brother, Fudge.

3) The Dog Weepy 

My primary school reading book was not usually of much interest to me – but then I read Bedgellert. This was the tale of the hound, Gellert, who saved Prince Llewellyn’s baby son from a wolf attack. But his master, returning home, thought that Gellert had killed the baby – and slew the dog, only to realise his mistake when he found the child unharmed.

This story absolutely devastated me. My heartbreak was only matched a few years later with the death of the boy Stephen’s hound, Amile, in Barbara Leonie Picard’s medieval novel, One is One. It’s a wonderful story and still in print – recommended to all with an interest in dogs, monasteries or painting.

Somehow, terrible to say, it’s always worse when an animal dies. Even today, as I watch the (definitely not for children) series Game of Thrones, it’s not the growing pile of human corpses that upsets me: it’s what happens to the dog (ok, it's a dire-wolf - same thing).

4) The Naughty Dog 

Being animals, dogs cannot be blamed for being naughty – and so children can revel in all the things that a bad dog can get up to (and which they might fancy themselves). Dogs run away, dig up flower beds, chase cats, jump fences, trip up the postman, steal food, and generally cause all kinds of enjoyable domestic chaos. I especially like Rose Impey’s Houdini Dog books, where the two sisters remind me of myself and my sister. We badly wanted a dog, and (as in Impey’s book) we decided that a protracted nagging campaign was the best way to get one. When we finally got one - a beautiful, stupid, but very good-natured Samoyed –  like Houdini dog he was given to occasional escapes, and led us a merry dance finding him again.

My favourite naughty dog of all is probably “the dog” (unnamed) in Adrian Mole. He is sick, he eats model ships, he throws up, he jumps on policemen, he runs away to Grandma’s, he licks his stitches, he is scared of alsations, he gets concrete stuck in his paws – he is thoroughly delightful. Who wouldn't fall for a dog like that?

Long may canines rule in children's fiction: may their barks never grow faint!

Check out Emma Barnes's web-site
Wolfie is published in August 2012 and Emma will be talking about it at the Edinburgh International Book Festival.