You were made up about that.
Then the year arrived when you actually attempted to use the diary for its proper purpose.
Come the 1st Jan, after psyching yourself up, you decide you will definitely start documenting your life in a most disciplined fashion. Admittedly, there were a few overspill December days at the front of the book which you'd already missed. But officially speaking, they weren't a part of the coming year - so they didn't count.
True to your promise, 1st Jan sees you frantically pouring a torrent of emotion. Your outburst reflects on the year gone by. You list earnest hopes for the year ahead. So much so, that you even end up writing over a few lines into January 2nd.
You consider using your pocket money to invest in a larger diary to fit more in.
On January 2nd, it is decided that the entry on the previous day might have been a bit 'poncey', and that you'd be better to consider a more formal approach to your writings. This will minimise any embarrassment if anyone were to find and read it.
By January 3rd, cracks start to show in your autobiographical integrity. This entry reads:-
"3 Jan - Dreading school on Monday. This year I promise to keep up with my homework. I will spend 3 hours a day on it at least. Dad trumped during 'Dempsey & Makepeace'. We all laughed.
Got to go now. Need to get up early and catch up on all the homework from over the holiday".
By 5th Jan, the word count of your entries have started to wain even more dramatically;-
"5 Jan - Had Maths today. Followed by PE."
Then finally, on January 7th (a mere week into your project), it finally happens:-
"7 Jan - Today, I have nothing interesting to say."
You do not realise it at the time, but this phrase is a get-out clause you merely use in the name of completism; just to have some sort of biro next to an entry. This is the first hole in your journal. Then within a fortnight, the dubious entry has become a common occupancy. Eventually you become bored of this façade and abandon this year's diary altogether.
I must confess, after all these years, I still maintain that same one-week-itch; desperately struggling to find anything interesting to write about. I'm hoping that by documenting the whole having-nothing-to-write-about predicament, I've perversely padded myself with something to write about. I don't know if it's worked. Suppose for you it must have, because you're still here. You idiot.
But the fundamental problem with this kind of trick, is that you can only really get away with it once. Otherwise it quickly becomes apparent that you are devoid of any thoughts whatsoever.
Like in some bizarre way, having written all this, feels like I have somehow used a "Get Out Of Jail Free" card in Monopoly or a life line on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?'. At an unjustifiably early stage.
