In the Days of Dear Diary

The 20th century author Roger Martin du Gard writes, "I have never had the time or the (romantic) inclination to keep a diary. I regret it. If I could hold between my hands today, in black and white, all my past life since my fifteenth year, I'd have a better impression of having lived."

While these words are not strictly true for me, they do hold a ring of truth. Diaries and I haven't always gotten along. That's not to say that I don't enjoy writing diaries. The few that I have written I have enjoyed: the one when I was fourteen and had uncrushable crushes, and the one when I was a college freshman. Those were the only ones that lasted more than few months. I have also kept bits and snatches of diaries over the years. I am keeping one at present, in a manner of speaking.

Like du Gard, I regret not having kept more diaries. The trouble is, I am very bad at following through when I start writing a diary. I will faithfully write an entry every day for a few weeks, then it peters off into a few entries a week, then one, then an entry every few months. Perhaps it's because I'm a little lazy when it comes to writing down my feelings and my inmost thoughts. I'm also rather lazy about writing things out my hand.

And because I am a writer, I also have this thought in the back of my mind that someone is going to read my diary someday, so I make it boring and stylized, and write down too much information. Who would want to read that, much less write it? But the biggest thing, perhaps, that keeps me from writing a diary is the fact that my life is very boring and safe compared to those of the famous people that we read about. Anne Frank, Helene Berr, Mary Chesnut...I haven't lived through a war, or persecution. I live in quiet little Tehachapi. I went to college, and now I am looking for a job. It's not terribly exciting, at least not to the world. 

Then I remember that I am a writer, and for that very reason I need to write about myself, for myself only, not so that the world can read about my inmost thoughts but so that I can have a better grasp on myself. I recently read a book called Dear Mr. Knightly, by Katherine Reay. The main idea is that this girl, Samantha Moore, has been given a grant by an anonymous donor to attend a prestigious journalism school. Sam lives in a world of books. She has lived in the foster system most of her life, and the world has hurt her so many times that she retreats into her books. She knows all of the famous characters like old friends, and can put on their personae to match any situation. The trouble is, she doesn't have a voice of her own, a character of her own. She finds her own character by writing about real things, by stepping back from fiction and seeing real life.

The world hasn't hurt me. I haven't retreated into books, though I do read a lot. All the same, sometimes I feel like Samantha Moore. While Samantha expresses herself through her favorite characters, I express myself through my fictional characters. I don't see this as a bad thing, except in that my diary-writing suffers because of it. I'd much rather be writing about the thoughts and problems of fictional characters than my own thoughts and problems. They're so much easier to handle when they're not your own. Yet they are my own, in a way. Whenever I come up with an idea for a story, I live the characters' lives in my head, think what they think, say what they say. I've done this my whole life. It makes my characters real, and it allows me to express my thoughts and feelings. Because that's how I express myself. If a character has seen a beautiful sunset and is moved to lofty thoughts, it's because I have seen a sunset and am moved to lofty thoughts. If a character is happy or sad about something, it's because I am happy or sad about something. They're very often my feelings. My characters think the way I think, most of the time. They see things the way I see them, most of the time.


When I was a teenager in high school, I found an outlet for my diary-writing, or non-writing. I went through a Dear America phase. You know them: Voyage on the Great Titanic; When Will this Cruel War Be Over; The Winter of Red Snow. I used to love to read those books, and they became a model for my own writing for a time, perhaps because I could express my ideas and thoughts without actually expressing them. I started my own series of Dear America diaries, as well as the Foreign Diaries series, because I wanted to expand beyond America. Like my old plays, I look back at them and laugh. I certainly didn't experience first-hand what my characters did, but they are a good example of my ideas and thoughts at that time of my life. At that time, I knew nothing of the world except for what I read in books. I saw only lofty ideals, not caring to delve deeper into things. Wars were not struggles over human folly, but heroic endeavors. In general, I was a romantic.

My first Dear America diary was called When This Cruel War is Over. (Notice the re-arranging of the title of the Dear America book to avoid copyright issues?) This diary is set in the American Revolution, and is written by an American girl named Charlotte Marie Darrington. Charlotte lives in Philadelphia with her mother; her father and her brother Johnny are off fighting for the Americans. The year is 1777. In my usual melodramatic style of the time (I was fourteen), her father is killed, and her brother is missing in action, and on top of that, the Redcoats come to stay at her house.

This is where things get interesting. One of the Redcoats is a boy named Randall Emerson. Charlotte notes (and here note my fourteen-year-old ignorance of history) that Randall "has a very American name. Very American." I suppose Randall Emerson could have noted that Charlotte has a very British name. Oh, wait, he does:

Today at tea, R.E and I had and argument. This is how it came about: I asked R.E where he was born and he said he was born in England. I said, “Good” and he asked why. I told him that if he had been born in America, he would be a traitor to his country. Then he asked me where I was born, and I said, “In this very house.” He said he was surprised, as I had such an English name. I told him that he had a very American name. Then R.E asked me where my ancestors came from, but I said I didn’t know. Mama said quietly that they came from England. R.E turned to me. “You are a traitor,” he said. “Am not,” I retorted. “You are too,” R.E said. “England is your mother country, whether you like it or not.” “Perhaps,” I said, “but our mother does not love us anymore.” “A good answer!” Colonel Graham cried. R.E looked disgusted. “Very well,” he said, “but we will beat you soon, never fear, and all you Patriots will turn coat and be sensible.” For answer, I quoted Patrick Henry:

“Is life so dear, of peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”

That is just the beginning of the Dear Diaries. After that came In Good Times and in Bad, the story of an opera singer who falls in love with another opera singer, and The Hart He Loves the Highlands, which is basically a ripoff of Outlaws of Ravenhurst, my favorite book at the time, only my version is about a girl and her twin brother, Maggie and Jamie. This one is very melodramatic. People die right and left, and Maggie's evil uncle kills off her parents, who are a lord and lady, and tries to take over the castle. Of course the children save the day. Oh, and there's a twist: at the end of the story you find out that they are not actually related!

          I must write quickly, for in a few minutes I must leave the castle, perhaps forever.
          Uncle Edwin has taken charge of Lochinver completely. He has outlawed Father William, and today he told Jamie he had to decide between these two things: to leave the Catholic Church and forever rule Lochinver, or to stay in the Church and be thrown into the dungeons. He said we had two hours to decide.
          Jamie stood up, and I have never been so proud of my brother before. “Uncle Edwin,” he said, “you may throw me into the dungeons, roast me alive, anything, but I will never leave the Catholic Church.”
          “I give you two hours to decide,” Uncle Edwin said.
          “Uncle Edwin, you are a traitor.” And Jamie turned and walked out, straight and tall. 

Yes, I was full of ideals, and not much subtlety.

As I got older, I got tired of writing fictional diaries, and I have not written another one since I was about seventeen. I'm glad now; that form is not my forte, and I don't enjoy it as much as I used to. Or maybe it's because I'm not very good at writing diaries in general. Perhaps one day I will write an autobiography, if I remember all of the things that happened to me. In the meantime, I have a diary to catch up on.