A Dose of the Dreaded 'Dear Diary'
A Dose of the Dreaded 'Dear Diary'
Week Four of 2024
Dear Diary,
We should take a moment to commemorate the display of consistency by yours truly. We have reached Week Four, and I have not let you down yet. I hope this tickles your ego sensors. Are you not a special little darling?
The end of January is fast approaching; the most depressing month of the year – accept my apologies, Sea Goats! – is coming to its inevitable end and, while I am eager to welcome February to the party, I cannot help but feel somewhat ununderaccomplished. One down, eleven to go. Tic toc. Tic toc. Tic toc. And what have I achieved in the past twenty-eight days? Shifty eyes, slumped shoulders, tentative whispers of ‘not muchs’.
Semi successfully, I have been adopting a practice of humility and quietness. It is no secret that I speak loudly and perhaps more than I should. Hardly aiming to be The centre of attention. In the build up to my thirty-seventh year on this planet, I shall try, really try, to become a better listener; bite my tongue and clamp on the words. Shush them in their wake. Nip them in the bud. We have two ears and one mouth for a reason, according to age-old wisdom. My other intention (the word ‘goals’ implies key performance metrics, and they remind me of work; ‘nuff said!) revolves around the power of observation. Observing. Seeing. Really seeing (as opposed to merely ‘peeking’, or ‘stealing a glance’). Turning into Clarice Lispector and noticing the unnoticeable. Is that not an integral quality for a writer?
The Week’s Round-Up
The silver lining in the nothingness that has been January is in the fact that the rest of the year should be characterised by pro-activeness rather than re-activeness. The highly coveted planner arrived earlier in the week, with its gorgeous cover, mimicking a kimono design, and its detailed, spacious day-pages. The paper, shiny and fresh, inviting ink smears, coffee stains, and folded edges to its brand spanking new life with me for the following 300 odd days. I have started filling it in with dates for literary events (something I am keen to do this year), some literary competitions (with no real aspirations to be a winner; the ‘taking part is what counts’ catchphrase at the forefront of my mind) and personal commitments that may otherwise fall by the sidelines.
On Saturday, I braved the early morning cold and made my way to a historical town not far away from my own place of inhabitancy. It goes without saying that I found myself perusing the shelves of not one, not two, but four or five bookshops (justifying this extravaganza by the majority offering second-hand goods in the name of charity). The first coffee of the weekend, bought from a hole in the wall, mere meters from the station, warmed my stiff hands, the insides of my outer frame and my soul.
The silence of the library in *insert the name of a quaint town in the West Midlands* has stunned me.
When was the last time I visited a locale dominated by an utter and all-encompassing stillness? An educated guess: in the summer of 2013 when I was busy writing and re-writing my MA’s Dissertation. I used to sit in that round reading room, made famous by the (mis)adventures of a young boy with a scar on his forehead, day in and day out, agonising over arguments and counterarguments, hooking introductions and compelling endings.
Back to the present: an impressive building of stone walls this is, archways, and wooden beams across the tall, imposing ceiling. Modern libraries steam up, in the manner of saunas (even for a person whose blood runs cold), amenities such as gas heating at their disposal. Not here. A natural draft permeates the premises. It is a good thing I remembered to stuff a jumper in my rucksack, an extra layer to protect me from the elements; my Deep Purple t-shirt would have left me frozen, distracted. This type of architecture has lasted centuries, intervals of famine, poverty and nasty weather conditions, the bloodshed of conflicts for authority and money. It leaves a mark. It is bound to linger in the mind unlike contemporary design attempts: different, yet all the same; somewhat unoriginal with their sleek surfaces, reflecting the tiniest slithers of light, and sharp edges.
The two hours there, I spent writing. I thrive in an environment with few detractions. My focus sharpens when I am surrounded by others, trapped willingly in their own world, lost in the expanse of their own thoughts, dedicated to their own craft. On the journey back home, I let myself gaze through the window, admiring the sprinting scenery outside; its specific attributes running through my fingers. But it is ok: I can always collect blurry snapshots like an impressionist, a post-modern Monet!
The Little Things
Short walks across the road to an independent café with healthy lunch options. A basic but clean table between us. The attentive eyes of a friend whom I have not seen for almost two years. The lack of awkwardness, the sense of sameness.
When has the frequency of meetups and WhatsApp messages defined a friendship anyway?
