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8 August 2008 / April

“Arrived early, settled in.”

Thus began an endeavor that would continue from June 27, 2004, up to the present day and into the foreseeable future: my maintenance of a daily journal.

And I do mean daily, as I never fail to inform people whom I tell about my journalism.  There was ONE DAY on which I actually forgot to write, and for sleepovers I wrote the next day.  But otherwise, at the end of every single day, no matter how exhausted I was or how busy or how unwilling, I wrote.

Apparently, doing this for four years, one month, and eleven days requires over 26 journals.  Yes friends, I am currently writing in my 27th journal.  That is insane.

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It’s so easy to forget about the accumulation.  You just get into a habit of writing, filling journals and throwing them into a box, and suddenly one day you decide to take them all out and bam!  There are 26!  How did that even happen, you wonder.  Are four years, one month, and eleven days of your little life even worth 26 journals?  Surely not.

But there they are.  You pick up one at random, open it, and suddenly it is the night after your 8th grade promotion and you are full of all your pre-high school aspirations and apprehensions and a burning nostalgia.  You open another and you are winning a piano competition, you are eating cookies in math class, you are in Venice.

You are at Crane Youth Music, the reason that you put pen to paper and started that very first journal entry.

Everyone tells me they wish they could keep a journal, but they never have time or energy or things to write about.  But everyone who’s the slightest bit of an egotist– which I believe is everyone– has things to write about.  And soon after I started writing about my days, it became impossible not to.

My mom has started to worry that I have developed some kind of unhealthy addiction, but as I keep telling her, I’m not obsessed.

I’m just really, really committed.

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