Dear Dear Diary.

These books are diaries. I write in my diary every day, and this photo shows the pages kept from 2005 to this very morning.

These pages (several thousand) are the offline journal, the log, as opposed to the blog; remember, the term “blog” was coined by combining the words “web” and “log,” sometime in the heady, early days of the Internet. I found myself wondering if “weboural” was ever considered, or “wiary,” which I like very much, since it accidentally creates a ubiquitous tech word like “wire.” Besides, “blog” sounds like a heave or an eruption. “She was so sick she blogged up the chicken she ate for dinner.”

Why do I write in a diary? Do you write in one? Why do you do it?

Occasionally, I speak to students about writing and when I do, I share this quote by American philosopher John Dewey:

“If you are deeply moved by some experience, write a letter to your grandmother. It will help you to better understand the experience, and it will bring great pleasure to your grandmother.”

That’s why I keep a diary. It’s why I write at all. Writing helps me to make sense of my life. If someone else is encouraged or entertained, then I have created value for my fellow man. To paraphrase Horace Mann: “Until you have done something significant for humanity, you should be ashamed to die.” I’m not suggesting my diaries are significant in any way, but they are an attempt, a wee flag waving.

They’re also extremely juicy. Like, juice bar juicy. Like all the juice bars in southern California juicy. Did I mention I’m a quilter? It’s an excellent front.