When this Diary blog was started the idea was to try and tease out the profound from everyday living. Instead of which, many of the posts have been hijacked by my untreated – and still undiagnosed – illness. To be fair, it is possible to reach profound insights from illness, and suffering in general, but such an approach is not typically my way. If you ever get round to reading my novels you will see that joy and not misery is my preferred method of making both personal and cosmic discoveries.
The title is borrowed from Dostoevsky’s ‘The Diary of a Writer’, which wasn’t so much a diary as observations concerning everyday life found in the Russia of his day, made available to readers through a subscription fee. Given that now subjects are mostly presented by paid experts in their field, this approach seems to me to be pretty much untenable. You do still find columns in newspapers and magazines which are little more than opinion pieces concerning events of the day, but they tend to be highly coloured, biased pieces – and nobody would really care what I think about such matters anyway. Probably Twitter would be a better medium if that was what I wanted to produce.
Other famous diaries include those of Samuel Pepys and Anne Frank, neither of which I would dare draw upon or claim to have provided inspiration for my own effort. They are incomparable in scope and subject matter.
So here am I left with my own relatively uneventful life and a continuing attempt to develop and attach some kind of profundity to what I experience around me.
You never know, that may yet be achieved.