I think my problem is, I get a lot of creative urges.
It all happens at once, and I’ll get so many different ideas that I can’t decide what to do. In the end, it feels overwhelming to the point that I’ll just open up another game of Windows Solitaire and forget I ever had the need to express myself.
I heard once that keeping a diary only you were going to see was very humbling. You don’t need to try too hard being witty, and you can spout as much irrelevant garbage as you like, to try and make sense of it all. You can be completely honest, and it centres you like nothing else. In theory, that’s an amazing idea. But, I just can’t do it. Keeping a diary is a lot of responsibility.
Samuel Pepys is renowned as the greatest diary writer in history. When it comes to Anne Frank, it’s difficult to compare her to anyone. I bought her diary in an attempt to broaden my horizons, and it’s the most inspiring piece of literature I’ve ever read.
Although I’m guessing, most people know the ending already.
I just find it amazing that a fourteen year old girl could document one of the most harrowing periods of history in such a practical and captivating manner. It made me want to go out and make a difference, to everything.
Not that I’m expecting my early morning ramblings to be of any such standard.
In fact, I doubt I could even reach Karl Pilkington status.
I don’t know what I’m expecting out of this internet blogging experience. My primary reason for doing it is to try and bring some order to my thoughts, and to be able to express myself in a way that I’m close to forgetting how. Whenever I try to keep a handwritten diary of my own, I’ll get really into it, and write page upon page of recent events and how it made me feel. I get it all out, then won’t go back to it for another three months. In which time, more diary-worthy and significant events have taken place, that I’ll need to record them, for fear of forgetting in the future. And it’ll mentally tax me to such an extent that I can’t even begin to think about writing in it regularly. And so it becomes a vicious cycle.
It’ll also give me something to do regularly, that I can’t procrastinate my way around. I’m on the PC for half of my life anyway, and there’s no threat of cramp, which is always a bonus.
This is more for my own benefit, considering only I’m probably going to be the only one reading this. Along with my boyfriend maybe, but he’s sort of contractually obliged to. Actually, I doubt even I’ll reread this, at least, not for a while yet. I might be able to look back on it in a few months time, and cringe or realise how much of a mentalist I am. But that’s what diaries are for, really. A tangible way of seeing how much you’ve changed. But by putting this on the internet, who knows which stranger might stumble across it. That’s not even the terrifying part. It’s more that people I do know might see it that scares me more than anything. Which is why I’m only going to post things I’m completely proud of at the time, and which I think have had the appropriate amount of effort put into them.
I could probably talk about myself until the cows come home, and not in a self-righteous way in the slightest. But when I come across topics of mass contention – abortion, homophobia, religion – I just want people to ask my views. That might be why I want to be a writer so badly. Nobody needs to ask for your opinion first; you just give it, and the public can take it or leave it. Either way, it’s out there, and all you have to do is sit back and wait for people to come to you.
I would love nothing more than to be a professional author, to have my work recognised on a grand scale. With that though, you need to have a certain degree of confidence in your work. There’s no way I can achieve anything with my brain all over the shop. So that’s what this is. A Filofax of my thoughts.

Well now, that was very self-indulgent, wasn’t it?