Allow me to present my credentials:
This is my first diary. Received Christmas day 1988. I was 9.
I wrote in it nearly every day and when it filled up I started another one, and then another and another. these books are probably the most precious, incriminating things I own.
Of course the content was largely trivial, hormonal, bitchy, self pitying, repetitive and trite. But some of it was quite good…
”Hi, I am writing this watching Missy our darling pussycat scramble under my dolls bed, she used to be able to jump around in it when she was little but now she’s a great big lout and can’t fit under it. Charlotte’s going to have a haircut today – I haven’t seen it yet but I think it’s going to look PUKE!!”
”Me and Stef are having a tidy room contest – I bet I will win and take his 20 cents HAHA!’
Top shelf stuff right????
I wrote pretty much every day for 16 years, until I went to live in London and figured I couldn’t risk writing down anything that someone might read, and hold against me.
Now, at the queenly age of 35, I think – screw it. I’m allowed to write.
The great thing about a blog is that you don’t need permission from a boss or editor or anyone else..
The only qualification you need is that you like to go tap tap tap on your little typewriter.
Everything else is gravy.