Dear Diary

For Wednesday Write-in #64

So here we are once gain, dear diary, me scribbling away, you accepting and tolerant. We meet regularly, don’t we? Me and you. Most evenings, in fact. Just the two of us. I like the routine, and I’m sure you do too. Most times I come to you willingly without feeling any pressure to be particularly creative, to perform, and you accommodate me accordingly.

From time to time I’m a reluctant visitor, fulfilling an obligation and scrawling reluctantly to meet a self-imposed deadline. These are the times when the visit is short, abrupt, truncated. Unsatisfactory. If we look back at the few entries I made/you accepted on those occasions, we would see a mood less buoyant than usual. It’ll show in the difference in my hand, the spacing between the letters, the words I use or choose not to use. And the entries would suggest I’m less of your partner, more of a casual pick-up; we come across as a strangers who have only recently met up in a alcoholic haze in a not very nice pub. But of course you forgive me for these aberrations. I am but human, I am but a man.

But those times are few and far between. Mostly we are a comfortable middle-aged couple, able to read each other’s minds, finish each other’s sentences. I can almost feel your participation in the writing; I can shut my eyes and let you take the initiative. There’s almost always pleasure in these regular trysts and very often passion.

And so dear diary, you may be wondering what this is all about. After all, we normally just get on with it. We enjoy each other, we don’t try and analyse the situation. But tonight is different. As usual I’m open with you – I always am. If there’s really any time when I can be honest, it’s when the two of us are here together, by ourselves, you settled on the cherry wood desk, me in the leather upholstered club chair that came down from my father.

Well, tonight I have something special to write about. Something very special; something unique. Ah, do I feel your pages quiver? No need, my dear, no need. In my words you will find joy. For I will be writing of joy. I have, you see, met someone. A woman. Younger than me. Beautiful. And she cares for me. Her name is Mary. And over the days, weeks, months, years, I will write about Mary, and you and Mary will be friends because I have no secrets from her.

I know you will understand. And I know you will be happy for me. The three of us will be happy together. Dear diary. Sweet diary.

 

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5 Responses to Dear Diary

  1. Elaine McKay says:

    Very well written, Patrick.

  2. Elaine Peters says:

    A bit dangerous bringing a third party into this relationship. I feel Diary will accept Mary, but will Mary be happy with the situation? I enjoyed this. It’s very clever and a unique point of view.

  3. SJ O'Hart says:

    A wonderful meditation on the sometimes tense relationship between a writer’s loved ones and their work – at least, that’s how I read your piece. I love the flow of this, and the lyrical quality of your language. Very enjoyable piece to read, Patrick. Thank you.

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