In my childhood, my aunt gave me a Barbie diary with a small lock that you can open with anything thin. I loved so much to write in it. I tried religiously to provide a sufficiently detailed narrative of my day. I saw a bicycle with the word “Chen” and I wrote that I laughed at it because it was my best friend's name. I had a haircut so I drew myself getting a haircut because I didn't have a lot of words back then.
On loose pages, I would pour my anger and misgivings. I would crumple the paper and tear it apart. I’ll place my hand that holds the pieces under running water and then throw them away. In my home, I felt that there was always a need for vigilance and shame. I did not finish that diary, but because of vigilance or shame but for reasons unrecorded and therefore unknowable.
During 2018-2021, I failed numerous times (the internet constantly influenced me) to keep a bullet journal. I always started strong. The outcomes were unpolished but they were fun to create and were beautiful. I figured that I just enjoyed making them but using them did not really appeal to me nor did it affect me in any significant way.
In 2022, I started a real journal. It was more of a bullet journal and diary hybrid, in a way. I was still interested in trying to visually represent my life and to summarize everything in boxes. But the monthly spreads I let go eventually, and I got more comfortable with my own words. I wrote and wrote diligently about whatever I wanted. I felt thoughtful but importantly I was honest and in the process of extracting shame from my veins. My right hand was always aching because I wrote about everything—almost, of course it is natural to have my reservations. However, soon enough, vigilance finally tied my hands. This was much to my dismay because I was being consistent for the first time ever on anything.
Even with my disappointment, it did not physically matter because there's nothing waiting behind the pages, but a blank one. Oddly enough, only that year did I ever thought about what actually waited for my entries, let alone entertain the possibility of a 'who'. I never imagined my notebook as anyone. “Dear Diary” as a child was a vague concept, if I even thought about it as a concept. I was merely writing in the first person, sometimes second to address “Diary” like a default entity, that's simply is without the need of my attention or coaxing, for the purpose of diaries. It never once crossed my mind that that could be unusual or pretentious. As I got older, writing in the first person point of view was purely customary— ritualistic. Then, I came across Rayne Fisher-Quann's essay:
i had to give up journalling because i couldn’t stop writing for the people who would read it after i was dead.
Like with diagnoses, I thought I was the same. I forgot the entirety of the text save for that final line. At that time, it hurt my head to think about it and I felt like I lost my inner voice. It pained me to write. It worried me about my possible insincerity. I detested insincerity. I understood that that line is applicable to me, even if just to some extent, and to everybody who read it. Humanity has never been more performative than in this decade. Consumerism, capitalism, you know the drill.
Initially, I also directed this collective urge as another response to art and media. I remembered people fawning over love poems and how the muses were now immortalized in the pages. We might have a craving for that illusion of immortality— for permanence and power. I thought that people just wanted to do the canonization themselves because no one else will. With this reasoning, they adopted the style of the novel.
Like an author to the protagonist, they give themselves as much favor and struggle, but not without appeal. I wondered if people wrote about themselves with the intention to be looked at in a specific manner. It likely was an issue on identity, possibly they could not grasp the fact of their existence without attaching it to an object or media, at the risk of acting like one themselves. Neither of these ideas gave substantial clarity to assuage my discomfort. I had no persisting desire for immortality nor a particularly difficult time with my identity.
On the less cynical hand and deepest of hearts, I know people just want recognition. In a rather childish way, I embarrassingly but wholeheartedly believed that humans were obsessed with aliens not because they are scared but because they wanted more eyes to watch over them. Humans live in response to each other, but as a whole who responds to us? I felt that humans want aliens to see everything that has happened so they can praise or disparage us, either way we had something to prove. Similarly, I thought that these people want an audience for their existence to be validated. Durian Sukegawa says:
Anyone is capable of making a positive contribution to the world through simple observation, irrespective of circumstance.
At the bottom of my spiral, I realized that I only wanted to be noticed. While I sometimes fantasized about other people reading my journal, I was not a deranged fraud. I only imagined people sharing my feelings. I observed that I grabbed my journal a little more often when I felt alienated and friendless or when I had thoughts that no one would hear. I thought maybe that's why they say that journaling is therapeutic, it can substitute for a person.
However, during times that I feel content or my day went pleasantly, I just wanted to smile and rest. I had no more wishes. Here, I wondered if this was why there were a lot of obscure depressing books and less happy ones. Probably the author was inclined to simply draw a smiley face.
The way I wrote as if I was talking to someone else, I still feel the same about. It's simply customary. Though now I do sometimes write with greater detail and the intention of having a reader, only because age granted me foresight. I worry about being confused in the future and I want to supply the old me some doses of remembrance. I accepted this reflection openly and my comfort renewed. I could write again but stopped once more due to vigilance.
In 2023, with the ever-unquenchable thirst to journal, I used a notebook the size of my palm. Each page was a brief account of my day. I broke my predisposition to mostly write on the worse days and I exercised hope and gratitude. This went on smoothly for the first quarter of the year but gradually declined leading to my stopping again. I accepted that it's just difficult for me to commit to such practice. But by the end of the year, I started missing the habit of doing it everyday. It really is a good one to have.
So here I am journaling again in 2024. I saw an Instagram story from Malissa who shared her prompts for each day in January and the people who used them for their own notebooks. The idea helped create a promising set up. It allowed me the space to be consistent while also not making it a demanding task. Though of course, I write freely when I want.
I'll just share the prompts I prepared for myself on February. I tried incorporating a Valentine's theme. Romantic feelings are something I want to assess about myself anyway because I would usually rather vomit before even considering talking about it.
February Prompts
Monthly Intentions
What do you want to read this month?
Food Cravings
Weekly Intentions
Anything you wanna buy?
A movie you wanna see
Write about three friends
What’s a funny memory you recall?
Plan your wedding.
What don't you like but wish you loved?
Weekly Intentions
Write about your mom It’s my mom’s birthday.
Ask your future self some questions
In what ways did you notice love in the air today?
Do you think that loving is tiring? I was thinking about a possible valentine’s day fatigue here.
When was the last time you treat yourself and how?
What makes you feel pretty?
Weekly Intentions
What are you waiting for?
Have you tried anything new recently?
It’s been a month since your birthday, how does it feel? I bet this won't apply to you.
What is attractive?
What’s your love language?
Is love still in the air?
Weekly Intentions
How was your screentime this month? I don’t know why I thought this was a good prompt.
Ten things you are a fan of
What can you still remember from January?
February Recap
Mentioned:
Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery by Rian Johnson [The title is a reference to this movie.]
standing on the shoulders of complex female characters by Rayne Fisher-Quann
Sweet Bean Paste by Durian Sukegawa [LOVE this. The author's note is the best representation of my world view.]
- [I was trying to link the instagram but Substack gave me this option, I wonder if that's an issue.]
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omg that's so relatable, especially the journalling process (that I, same as you, struggle to keep as a habit). amazing post and words as always!
one tip that I can share that really helped me in this process is the Diary app that the ios 17 brought, it's a really good system for those who struggle to journal in paper or want to start to have this habit but don't know how.
Fantastic.