Be frugal, calm and happy, and get wine soon.” I love that last bit. Be not hasty to take music master, and consult Count Nassau about concert. Studying law as a young man in Utrecht in September 1763, he writes: “Try and be shaved and dressed by nine… Read much privately and continue firm to plan… Resolve now no more billiards. James Boswell, often prey to insecurity and low spirits, would address himself in his journal in the second-person, as if he were his own mentor. Is there anything quite so pathetic in social-media manners as the line “They later deleted the tweet”?Įven the greats have used their diary as a psychological prop. There is no fear of being trolled or cancelled when you only write for yourself and you won’t have to live out your regret in public. Much better to confide your unworthy or unrepeatable thoughts to that book on your desk than pin them up for everyone to read online.

I should admit that I have never been on social media and don’t own a mobile phone.

The diary is a safety-valve in an age of invasive scrutiny. The first is the benefit to your mental health. Diary-writing is the most private form of literary creation because you are both the author and (for the present at least) the sole reader. Which prompts the question: who are you writing for? Ultimately, it’s yourself. I took recourse to discussing the books and box sets I was involved with – not exactly Pepysian, but it got me through. During lockdown, like everyone else, I got into routines that felt numbing in their repetition and diary-wise left me short of material. A diary is good exercise for the writing muscle, the way a pianist practises scales or a footballer does keepy-uppies. It also maintains the illusion of diligence – that you’re not just pissing away the days. It often feels trivial to record things as they happen (a stray remark, hearing a song, fleeting moments of doom or delight), but later they may prove useful, or instructive, or amusing. You can’t hold back time, but you can try to save the past from being completely erased. Why? I suppose it began as an experiment – and became an obligation. Twenty years ago I decided to go full-time and since then I’ve kept it more or less every day. I started writing a journal (as I used to call it) when I went on holiday. The answer: nothing of any great note, and yet so much of my life is in it. What exactly have I got to tell this black book about a life that we share all day, every day? What secrets can I possibly be keeping? It’s true that I never feel more furtive than when my wife finds me writing it at our kitchen table – it’s like being spotted entering a confessional box in church. Maybe the practice strikes them as shifty or weirdly old-fashioned. I still get funny looks from people when I mention that I keep a diary.

Dear diary