We make habits so we don’t have to focus on something to make it work. So it happens easily. Small changes that help us long term – keeping us healthy or fattening our bank accounts, reminding us to slow down.
For a long time, I have lamented my terrible memory. There is a lot of information that slips out of my head – my friends’ birthdays, where I’ve left my stupidly expensive water bottle (it’s black and thin if anyone I know is reading this) and even sometimes what I was doing 24 hours ago.
Behind me is a string of days I can’t remember, objects that are now long lost, jokes I’ll never get a second laugh at, precious fleeting moments where I felt connected to the great rumble that have disappeared into the abyss.
I decided if I couldn’t remember my life, I would write it all down. A cheat sheet. A diary. I was going to make remembering easy – I was going to make it a habit.
This is how I went.
Week One
I’ve set it up so it cannot fail. Nice new black book, a good writing pen. Sitting open, ready to go on my bedside table. Foolproof. And wow, a strong start, every day an entry. Look at that.
Lots of entries about going to the gym- that’s a bit boring. But who cares? I’m off. Call me the young Helen Garner, or the gay Helen Garner, whichever.
I’m having visions of pulling out my diary to factcheck a friend, remember a dinner party, or enjoy a bit of gossip. I feel like I’m almost cheating death – why live your life just once, when you can write it down and enjoy it again and again and again?
Week Two
I am getting into a rhythm. But there’s a lot of “gym” and “work” and “dinner with [insert friend]”. There’s not enough to differentiate any of it. It’s a laundry list of the things I did. No one wants to look back at their one precious life and find monotony. I am crashing. Forget the fucking gym. I want the T, the drama, the vibes. I need to change tack.
I read a book about storytelling once: the guy said he wrote down the most unusual or out-of-the-box moment in every day he had. He called it homework for life, which I thought was a massive turn-off. But I am reminded of it now.
I reorientate. From now on, the entries need to be spicy. Or as close too. I am going to ask myself – if I was about to slip into a burning pit and my last words were only allowed to be about one story from that day (pit situation aside) – what would I choose to say?
Week Three
The content has improved. There’s a disagreement between two friends. A secret crush. My toenail has fallen off after my first 21km race. This is the record of life’s rumble I wanted! Shit, it’s getting good.
But I’ve come across a new hurdle. Is it “gym, deadlifts” or “gum disease?” I can’t read my own bloody writing. One entry this week just ends with “write neater” but it could also be “nothing” or “naked”.
I have the scrawl of a person who hasn’t sat a penmanship test since the 90s. The entries are getting sharper – when I’m 75 I will remember I had a hoot. But only if I can read it.
Week Four
There do seem to be a lot of entries about being tired. Maybe writing the diary at night is a bad idea? I try to change the time of my habit. I miss a day. I go back to bedtime.
Week Five
OK, I went to Noosa with my parents – a lovely trip, and thank God I can remember bits of it because the diary didn’t make it on to the plane. Those days are now just lines.
Week Six
Wow, there is one really long entry I wrote after a few too many beers at a friend’s 30th. If I could read it, it would probably be great goss. Wasted.
Week Seven
This is my peak week. I’ve honed the entries, the writing is legible, and the days are filled in. I’m feeling confident. I actually think I’ve built the habit.
Week Eight
Habit? What habit? December madness has hit. I’m also moving house. Every night I am out seeing someone or something.
I am at countless lunches or dinners where everyone shares what they were grateful for this year. I’m glad I can remember because I am forgetting about my diary. It’s virtually nonexistent. Some nights I, literally, look at the book before bed, turn the light off and roll over. I feel as if I’m neglecting a pet. Guilt descends.
Week Nine
“Cait is a hotty” – in the last week, it’s the only thing written in my diary.
I didn’t put it there. It must have been a friend at my birthday party, or Dykemas, or Christmas dinner. They were clearly feeling a warm festive glow, probably spurred on by endless margaritas. I don’t not love it, but I’m marking the last 66 days with a note from someone else. Is this a failure?
The End
You don’t think of writing a few thoughts about your day, every day in a book, as an ambitious task – but it is. I got it right – and then like many before me who made new year resolutions to put pen to paper, the whole thing collapsed.
Here are my tips: find the nub of the day – the interesting bit, the bit that made you smile or cry. The bit you would tell from the burning pit. Have some respect for the trees that died for this endeavour and don’t write novellas in there when you’re drunk. Write neatly. And possibly most importantly: be prepared to lose days, both in life and in the diary.
