by Jackie Houchin
Once upon a time, in a WAY long time ago, before I had a smartphone, a computer, an online presence, or even a typewriter, I wrote with a pencil, on lined school paper. I wrote letters (to pen pals and cousins), stories (mostly tragically romantic vignettes in far-off places), and I wrote in small daily diaries.
You know those little books, about four by five inches, with a strap that wrapped across the pages and fit into a lock on the front, and had a half-inch, flat key to secure it. I mean, even a fork or a good slap could open them!
The pages were dated, but you had to fill in the year. And you had to write quite small if you had a lot to say, like I did. Wow, did they hold secrets! And souvenirs – another good reason for that little strap and key. I wrote about feelings, events, boys, teachers, embarrassments, fights, dreams, disappointments, and things or people who made me mad, jealous, or envious.
One day, I found and opened a thirty-five-year-old diary like that. Oh, my goodness! I slammed it shut and looked around me. Then I carried it to a small chair in a corner of the bedroom and opened it again.
I wrote THAT? And that? Oh, my!
I laughed. I cringed. I even cried a little. A couple of times, I gazed off into space, seeing and reliving a sweet incident. I’d smile and sigh.
How would my life be different if THAT had happened? Or hadn’t happened? Or if I’d said something else? Or acted quickly, nicely, or at least not selfishly? What if….?
What if?
That’s the way fiction writers often dredge up a story idea or outline. What if such and such happened, or someone said or did THAT?
I glanced down at the diary and thumbed through the pages, stopping now and then to read a heavily underlined passage. WHOA!
I eventually put the little book back into the cardboard box with maybe eight others like it. I’ll read them all, I promised myself. I’ll write a story or two. Is there enough for a book, I wondered?
I stretched the duct tape tightly across the flaps and penciled “diaries” on the front. Tomorrow we will take the last of these attic finds to our new house. After all the unpacking and settling in, I will dig out these diaries and sit at my computer, and type, “What if….?”
Halfway down the busy freeway to the new house, traveling at 65 mph, our heavily packed pick-up truck hit a pothole. In the passenger side mirror, I saw a small box jump and pitch itself over the truck’s railing. When it landed, the box split apart. Small square objects flew out and bounced into the bushes growing close along the side.
“OH!” I cried.
“What?” my hubby asked.
“My diaries! Didn’t you tie the boxes down?”
“I did!”
“But…”
There was no place to pull over. No going around. No going back, either along the freeway… or to that youthful time long ago.
I sat stunned. Then I laughed, imagining some homeless dude living in the bushes finding and being entertained by my teenage drama and angst. Or maybe a gang of miscreants wearing orange vests and carrying plastic bags would come by to clean up the roadside trash, and find them.
Hey, my stories could be read in jail! Perhaps even traded among the inmates for snacks or phone calls. Juicy sections could be copied on the backs of old envelopes and reread a hundred times. Pages might be torn out and passed on to new inductees as the old timers were released. My audience would grow! I might become “a best-selling author!”
Well, maybe not.
Anyway, that’s why I never wrote the “Great American Novel.”
Did you ever write in diaries? Do you keep a journal now? If so, is what you write “stream-of-consciousness” or does it have a specific purpose? Have you ever reread your previous ones from a year ago, or many years past?
The Writers in Residence 
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