I’ve been spending an inordinate time with my diaries written in high school.
I’m writing a book about the year I turned 15, so I’ve read and re-read those passages, mining them for an interesting story. In the meantime, I’ve been reflecting on their value. Whether or not they ever yield a publishable story, were they worth writing? Keeping? Hauling around with me for years?
I don’t keep diaries anymore. But it’s not a lost art. Instead, I blog. I love blogging. Some days, like today, I sit glumly in my chair wracking my brain for a blog topic and kicking myself for attempting to post every day. But when I’m writing, and when I’m done, I’m relieved. Happy. I can cross it off my list and feel like I accomplished something. Not like filling the dishwasher, which I’ll have to do again tomorrow, and not like laundry, which I’ll have to do again next week. When I post something on my blog, it’s done. Can be revisited. Could be reblogged. Certainly could be edited or polished. But still, done.
Now that I’ve been keeping up Minnesota Transplant for nearly six years, I have quite a record of my life (and my dog, and my garden, and my travels, and even a handful of interesting salad recipes). No matter what inane topic I chose to write about, I can usually remember the day and the mood I was in when I wrote it.
In that way, modern blogging is like old-fashioned diary keeping for me. The value is in the way the writing solidifies time for me. Crystallizes memories.
When people remark how fast time flies, I consider myself fortunate. I don’t feel like life is moving too fast. Because the act of writing every day keeps time and memories from slipping through my fingers.
Even if there’s not a story here, and even if no one reads this blog (thank you for reading, I’m grateful for readers), it’s worth writing.