A Calendar of Days

Introduction. July 12 2025

When I was a shyly aspiring writer in my mid-20s, all of my writing was destroyed. Diaries since I was ten years old, stories, books of poems, everything I had ever typed on my typewriter, and the beginning of a first novel.

After a while, I started writing again. But instead of filling whole books with tiny neat handwriting as before, I found that I couldn’t leave the notebooks in peace. I ripped pages from their bindings almost as quickly as I’d written on them. I had a wild need to open the cover of every notebook to a blank page, and felt destabilized at seeing my own words. Starting around 2014, I began to collect some of the paper debris and type certain passages into a Google Doc called “DAILIES”.

A decade later, still compulsively shredding my notebooks, still transcribing DAILIES, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. The psychiatrist, through her glassy blue eyes, from behind her enormous desk, told me that it had probably been undiagnosed since my late teens. That day, my first reaction was deep and intense grief. My second reaction, as strong as the grief, was this: Fuck it, we ball.

Remembering who gives a shit, and life’s short and then you die, I began to feel that I didn’t need to categorize everything I did as sorry, corrupt, and insufficient, because really, what did it matter? Fuck fear, and fuck self-hatred, and fuck my ongoing belief that I am fundamentally shitty. As an experiment in low-stakes, unapologetic self-disclosure, I decided to start posting my remaining journals where they are unlikely to be seen by my friends and family. I will never be gracious enough to justify the publication of these entries, most of which have never been read even by myself. But, I will proceed from 2014 and might even one day catch up to the present.

I am not grand and glowing, as I sometimes think. Not lowly and unworthy, as I sometimes think. I’m just another person.

Thanks for stopping by. I’m glad you’re here.