One of my friends is fond of keeping a diary, which these days is called "journaling." Journaling is so much more evolved than the "Dear Diary" of the old days. You don't write about what you did, but rather about the profundity of what you did. Since I do almost nothing I or anyone else would consider profound, I don't journal. (Actually, I consider nothing profound except giving birth, and that's the truth.)
I have written many short stories and two novels, none of which have found a wide audience. Or any audience. Even my husband has not read my last novel, which is funny since it's all about him and his twin brother, and it's easily accessible online. But hey, that's his business; my writing style is not for everyone, that's for sure. I don't go for that high-blown descriptive stuff. I hate reading things like, "It was a pale, soft morning and the translucent clouds wafted across the sky like cotton balls." Or maybe they were dark storm clouds that marched across the sky in formation, like rookies at boot camp. Or whatever. I'd rather say, "It was a cloudy day." This is why I don't get published in the New Yorker.
Anyway, I am currently reading a novel by Shirley Jackson, one of my favorite no-nonsense authors, called "We Have Always Lived in the Castle." The last thing she wrote before her death at the young age of 49, and apparently her "masterpiece" according to all the critics, I am surprised that I never read it before, or even heard of it. I just stumbled across it in a bookstore the other day looking for something they didn't have. It's pretty good so I guess I'll get back to it now.
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