Starting a new journal is like walking up to a microphone in a crowded room and tapping it, anticipating the squeak, the hush. In the moment between opening your mouth and speaking, you panic. God, this was the worst idea ever. Who would draw attention to their inner thoughts? Who would direct a spotlight towards their own flaws?

I’ve written in all of the places that it is possible to write on the internet. Before the word blog became a tool to emote about the quotidian, before it became a marketing tool, I was diarising on my own website (in HTML, no less). And then came along Livejournal, which provided a haven for my indulgent rants, locked behind a password and audience-filtered. Over nine years, I would split my life into several journals, fragment and pare back my words until in the end, Facebook plunged the knife deep into its chest. Blogging was alive and well, but I wasn’t so sure about returning to a public forum. And yet – I tried. After a few months, I would I pull my words down – banishing them to hard drives that became lost over time. I missed the freedom of Livejournal, the ‘I’ness. The safety of a curated community. No one wanted to see the heart that I had tightly sewn to my sleeve, my thoughts about Christmas and motherhood, my favourite budget recipes.

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