“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 20th 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!
