I’ve never been able to keep a diary. The last time I managed to pen down more than ten entries consistently into a book, my mother discovered it and didn’t like how much I knew about boys (I must’ve been about eleven or twelve).
I’m pretty sure I’ve started four blogs in my lifetime (hands up if you remember live journal), but have never been known to keep any, because I’d get bored and I’d have a hard time trying to resist editing everything I’ve written.
Ironically, I do have a rather sizable notebook collection; pretty cloth-covered journals, leather-bound notebooks, moleskins and what have you – they’re currently collecting dust in my bedroom. It used to also be organisers, but every year the lifespan of my disciplined schedule-logging completes in February.
So if my memory serves well, this would be blog number five. Except that I started it in January of this year and had recorded about seven or so posts until February rolled around (not just organisers after all!) but the fastidious person that I am, I don’t like big gaps, so I deleted them.
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