I’ve been keeping journals ever since I was about 9 years old. Every now and then, when I’m home in Betty’s Bay, I like browsing through my little hand-scribbled library and taking a peek into the mind of my younger self. As you can probably imagine, it’s an extremely cringe-worthy exercise. Extremely!
But it’s also a great way to relive ‘big’ moments that I’d forgotten all about (hence the quotation marks) and, more often than not, serves as a reminder that time does, indeed, heal all wounds.
However, after packing the volumes back into their dusty boxes, I always have a sense of relief that no one would ever probably feel the need to publish them a-la Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Ettie Hilesum etc.
And not least of all because of my juvenile handwriting. I mean aren’t famous journals always written in finely tuned, beautifully shaped, flowing cursive?
Yeah, not really my scene, has never been:
P.s. I only realised the other day that they use this sentence in font previews, because it’s a pangram. So, thought it would be appropriate for this post too.