“Why am I doing this?” isn’t a question I often ask when I’m hunched over my diary after midnight — like a feral cat over a kill. Lapping nourishment from fresh blood and splintered bone, my hare-fast mind pinned to the page, each thought a rib I can count.
Sated, I fall asleep. Or, if a crack of moonlight slithers through the closed shutters onto the bed, I’ll lie back and ponder some more. The temptation to write longer will gnaw at me, but usually, I’ll leave it be.
There are always more pages to write. No matter how often I’ve felt a feeling, clarified a thought, or written the river’s song on paper, I’ll always circle back to a fresh blank page. Being alive is a mystery. I’ll never make sense of it and yet I want to keep track all the same.
It’s always been this way. Well, nearly always. I’ve kept a diary from when I was 14 years old and I’ve always written in it at night. Morning pages just aren’t for me. I can spend a productive, happy morning writing a project I already know the shape of but my subconscious shies from daylight hours. Night-writing, however, feels like a sacred hunting ground where I’m free to run with my shadows.
One of my biggest regrets is burning those early diaries. Never again will I have such a direct link to my teenage self. Time softens edges, blurs memories. At the time that’s what I wanted: to leave an old self in the chilly mists of the past. Now I find myself calling out to her with the benevolence of two decades’ worth of hindsight.
Writing captures and makes clear fleeting thoughts and feelings we won’t experience the same way again. Like catching the river mid-flow in a glass jar to see up close how light shimmers through the murky swirls.
I devoted a large portion of my twenties to reading all of Anais Nïn’s epic diary. She wrote that we write “to taste life twice” and sometimes I wish I could savour once more the sweetness and sorrow of my teen self’s inner world. The earliest diary I’ve kept is from 2007 when I left high school. A time when I learned I could romanticise my own life (at least within the pages of a red, William Morris print journal). When writing let me shape my perception of who I was and where I was heading.
I’m sure many people thought I was an empty vessel, without thoughts or feelings. In reality, I was overflowing. But it all poured inwards — deeper, endless — spilling over as a flood of words into the pages of my diary. I started writing a novel but I didn’t have the tools back then to make all the disparate scenes come alive as a story.
During that time I always asked why. Why give this inner world, this softness, this emotional overflow, and romanticising of life’s dark undercurrents back to the thorny, unfeeling outside?
Then I thought about O, Caledonia. All the dog-eared pages and underlined sentences. The notes in the margin. The dust jacket, frayed and soft at the edges. How I felt like the author had given me a missing piece of my soul.
Ironically, the deeply personal is often universal. When you commit to silently and patiently sitting by your river — listening for its song, capturing its music in words — then you find the untold stories you need to write. The stories that you (and someone like you) need to hear.
The single, biggest reason behind why I write is because I must. I need writing to help me make sense of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Writing helps me understand who I am and allows me to shape the woman I’m becoming. Without writing the world lacks substance and depth. Without writing, I forget who I am.
So yes, even in the year of my ‘burnout sabbatical’ I’ll still write. Not pretty, composed words but craftless, private scribblings. Moonlit, midnight words that spill onto the page like blood. Words that might one day be shaped into a book, words that remind a kindred spirit who they are.
The kind of words I’ll write my entire life, because I must.
Last week’s dusk letter was about my word for the year and how it’ll impact my writing.
In my previous dawn letter I set gentle but firm writing boundaries for 2024.
I also shared a january love list — small things that brought me joy in the darkest month.
If you’d like to read them, my books Fireside Fairy Tales and Fireside Magic are available here, here, and here.
Thank you for reading today’s letter. Do you write? If so, I’d love to know your whys. If you’re a reader, what book did you find yourself in?
p.s. this post was inspired by other wonderful writers on Substack ~, , ~ who have recently shared thoughts on writing. I can think of nothing better than brewing another tea and curling up with their words.
Gorgeous post! I love O, Caledonia. I think I wrote about it in one of my first Substack Love Lists- that tiny sub-genre of coming of age novels set in castles (I Capture the Castle, We Have Always Lived in the Castle...) is my favourite! 🖤 Thank you for the mention, too.
Another great post. You mentioned O, Caledonia which I wasn't familiar with and writing notes in the margins along with underlined passages. Funny because as I read your post, I want to underline passages or highlight sentences and add notes in the margins too. After reading, I had to look up O, Caledonia and read some reviews and a synopsis. Just ordered a copy and it will jump to the top of the pile in my "To Read" stack. Your suggestion of Nan Shepherd turned out just wonderful so I'm sure this will be a fun book too. Pretty soon, Amazon will need to send you royalties for book suggestion sales! 🙂 Thank you Kate for the amazing writing as always.