I remember when I first started keeping a diary. I was about 13 years old and being a newly established teenager, I decided that as I was about to begin the best and most exciting years of my life I should keep note lest I forget a thing: each awkward dance at the school disco; every new disastrous fashion phase; and not to mention every time I swore I hated my parents. Ah, good times. Despite my determination to record all these cringe-worthy moments, it took me a good year to shake off the odd sense of embarrassment at writing to a book, to no-one. Ironically, I have the same feeling now writing to potentially infinite numbers of people.
I have survived the unrequited school crushes, hormone fluctuations, not to mention exams and have emerged on the other side – relatively unscathed – studying History and Spanish at the University of Warwick and setting my sights on a career in writing.
Although an awful yet entertaining reminder of years perhaps best forgotten (I frequently question why I would want to remember wearing flares with big sunflowers on them), my diary was the one hobby that stuck and, despite the content, I’m proud I persevered. A quote I recently came across by John Van de Ruit, author of the book series ‘Spud’, summed up why I love to write:
Every man’s life, no matter how routine, will fill a chest of books, and if he’s lucky, a million miles of film. Forget nothing lest yourself be forgotten.
I’ll keep my latest complaints about exams and tales of romance exclusively for my trusty diary and will use this site to ponder subjects with a little more substance and popular importance; subjects that you can (and hopefully will) feel inspired to respond to.