My Inner Editor Won’t Let Me Journal
But I’m learning to get more vulnerable on the page
My first diaries, from the late 1980s and early 1990s, were bound in marbled paper, with paper lined just wide enough to fit an ever-changing juvenile scrawl. My very first one was pink; the second, green. After all these years (approximately three decades), the binding is weak and the diaries are held together by little more than old tape. They didn’t come with a padlock, but I developed a foolproof method to secure my precious secrets: After writing the entries, I tore out the pages, tore them up, and threw them away. So when I say the diaries are bound together by little more than tape, I’m not kidding around. They are empty paper shells, collapsing into themselves.
I had my reasons. First, a clear concern for privacy: My father was known to rifle through my journals for entertainment. Second, powerful insecurity: I just couldn’t stand how stupid I sounded. I don’t use that word lightly — it’s just the one that always came to mind as I was writing. My diary entries never had much of a chance — if I didn’t rip them out immediately after writing, you could be sure they’d be gone after the first rereading.
