I think I stopped completely when I was 15, around the time of the traditional first terrible boyfriend. Then the days of not writing outnumbered the days of writing. Like most things of this sort, I fell away from it slowly – first, missing a few days here and there and promising to write again soon. I’ve never been brave enough to crack them open for a re-reading. Occasionally I wonder if any of those were actually funny. They were ostensibly some sort of parody of the late night format, with a dash of comedic essay thrown in. I loved Dave Barry, sketch comedy, and late night shows, and that love birthed a series of entries titled “The 10:10 Show” (always written at 10:10 PM, because rituals). The format became more fluid over time, as often happens with anything you do for a while. Most entries had some sort of nuts-and-bolts accounting of the day – a school assembly happened, some kid’s pants fell down, etc. By the end of my journal writing days I had 6 volumes documenting pubescent life. I was a kid who was drawn to rituals and tradition. When I finished the last page of one book, I’d read through it completely then start the new one, dating the first page with the FROM: date. And that book led to others – new ones from the local chain bookstore, with fairy or moon themed covers. But apparently I took well to suggestion, because starting that night I wrote something in that journal pretty much every single day. It was either Christmas, or a birthday – I don’t remember. When I was 10, I got a bound journal as a gift.
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