As soon as I write the word diary I can see it. A pink veleveteen cover, gold padlock, a tiny 
gold key with a tassel on it and the front cover embossed with the words Secret Diary. It demands to be violated and so must be kept hidden from the prying eyes of parents, siblings and especially friends. Its blank pages call to be filled with hopes, dreams, losses and self-pity. They are the repository of angst and anxiety. But how many of us keep them into adulthood and why?
I have memories of receiving diaries on various childhood birthdays and being thrilled. Seven days to a double page filled with cramped handwriting in order to fit each exquisite detail of my exciting existence.
Until about Day 4 when the novelty wore off. Oh, there’d be sporadic revivals when something noteworthy did happen in my day or because I felt the diary pulsating with neglect but the decline of interest was usually rapid.
Once I hit my teens, I replaced any pretence of diary keeping with writing bad poetry – when butterflies flutter by– that type of thing. I had been writing poetry since I could spell and the primary school years saw me assemble a portfolio of modestly okay work. But somehow when caught up in roiling hormones, the poetry become mired in fecal matter- if you catch my drift.
Of course, our teen years are precisely the moment when many of us seek and find consolation inside the covers a secret journal. Within its pages are ticket stubs from a rock concert or a pressed rose bud, photos, a solitary Valentine’s day card, pages of our first 
name with his surname and of course, the ubiquitous bad poetry. As a way of processing one’s life and sorting through emotions, the diary can be an effective tool.
But as an adult, keeping a written record of one’s life takes on a different meaning. Some diaries are famous and some famous people keep diaries. Surely famous people do so anticipating its contents will be broadly distributed, especially once they are dead and buried? They must. Historians and biographers are forever in the debt of diarists even 
the most humble.
But now we are all famous, or could be. Social media is our diary and secrecy is passé. Are we vainer and shallower than in times gone by, who knows, but its cheaper than therapy.
We also have new variations such as the food diary. This is a tool for recording what you 
ate each day, how you felt about the food you ate, the exercise you did or didn’t do and what was behind the emotional setback which made you demolish an entire packet of mini Magnums in one sitting. All of which assumes you are truthful enough to record for posterity your calorific indiscretions. How did that make me feel? Bloody fantastic.
But this week a special journal has caught my eye. Not the genuine ones about a year living with cancer or being held as a hostage in some hellhole but one called The Gratitude Journal. I find it ludicrous to suggest writing down every thing that happens in my life for which I am grateful. But now the seed is planted, my list might look something like this:
6AM There’s milk in the fridge- sniff– and it’s still fresh!
8AM God I hate exercise but thank goodness I’ve done my squats, lunges and core abs and can face the day with a clear conscience J
9.10AM Yeah! The kids are at school.
9.45AM Great parking spot at the shops
10AM Tim Tams on a two-for-one deal- yum!
1PM No bills in the mail.
2.45PM Kids have a playdate so no school pick up for me. I can just loll about on the lounge and finish the book I am reading
6PM Gee that pile up on the news looks bad- glad its them not me
7.30PM Awww! Hubby has insisted on cooking dinner tonight and wants me to put my feet up and relax.
9PM Mmm- now I know why. Lights out and let the fun begin
Now isn’t that edifying?
That’s why God invented blogging. Who needs secrets when I can share every idle thought that crosses my tiny little mind with the entire Universe without waiting until I die AND I get feedback. I am overflowing with gratitude. Now, where’s the Tim Tams.
meredithjaffe 