I’ve been thinking of starting a diary. Which, of course, is not the same as actually starting one. The inclination to journal was triggered by — what else — reading another writer’s journal, in this case The Folded Clock, by Heidi Julavits, one of my grad school professors and a mensch of the highest order. Her book is meant as a different sort of diary than the journals she kept as teenager, which she admits were written under the expectation that they would be “published at some future date, when my literary fame might bestow upon them an artistic and biographical value. I believed I was born to posthumous greatness. I often imagined myself more famous when dead than when alive.”
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