Borrowed my mothers’s shredder, and am destroying my diaries. Kept 'em from 1970, when I was 12, through 1977. Good lord, what a whiney, boring, terrified child I was! Scared of math tests, gym, Hebrew school, orthodondist appointments. Way too much about what I saw on TV that night (Carol Burnett, Mannix, reruns of Twilight Zone, Laugh-In) and how I don’t have my homework done (wonder why?).
Nobody is reading this ilk after I am gone! I assume it will get a little more interesting (to me, not to anyone else) as I age through the 1970s, but I still intend to spend the next week or so on a year-a-night, consigning my dreary childhood into the shredder.
Did you know Mary Raff fainted in library class? Or that Jack Treatman and I went to summer school together because we both failed math? Or that we painted the living room Autumn Beige? Somehow I don’t think posterity will curse me for denying future generations this legacy.
Hehe. My usual routine with childhood diaries was to burn them the day I finished writing them. I was a somewhat paranoid child. Kind of wish I hadn’t done that; if I was that desperate for people not to read them they must have been interesting.
No! Don’t shred 'em! Remember that book you want to write, how you lament there are no diaries or scrapbooks she kept (what was her name, the poor dear who jumped off the Hollywood sign?)? You’re pretty spiffy and getting better every year, so I am certain someone will want those diaries in the future.
And remember that some of the best parts of published diaries turned out to be the most mundane. Anne Frank wouldn’t have been half as poigniant if the ordinariness of her girlhood couldn’t have been contrasted with her horrible situation. Your bio could be a great book, don’t shred a page!
That’s sweet, dear, but no one is ever going to write a biography of me, and there is nothing of historical interest in these. We’re not talking “gee, how I hate Nixon and wish the Vietnam war would end and those new miniskirts are something and oh, look, Janis Joplin just died.”
No, it’s “I am so nervous about my orthodontist appointment and Mr. Latina is such a crappy teacher and tomorrow I go visit my grandmother in Atlantic City.” As well as some teenage “musings” of the most self-pitying and agonizingly pre-Goth kind. I shudder even as I shred.
I don’t blame you one little bit Eve. I’ve been meaning to toss out my old year books for quite some time now for the same reasons. That there are inscriptions from a couple of people who are now famous is what is holding me back.
I’m tempted to do the same to my annuals. There are no famous people in them. There’s only one friend in there I still associate with and she’s getting ready to move out town (the last of my old school friends to do so).
but - but - but - think of all the whiny, bored, terrified children who could be inspired by your message of hope that they, too, might someday develop into interesting adults.
I hope you save at least a few chapters here and there. If shred you must, may it be with love and compassion.
And what if you decide to write a fiction story and you need to get into the mind of a bored, whiney little kid from the 70’s. You’re tossing excellent primary source material.
Actually I would imgaine a large enough portion of historians would prefer to study your diaries rather then one that was a recitation of news events. I mean we’ve got newspapers to cover those, here we have a real live person growing up.
But then again it’s exactly because so many people get rid of their personal records that those that are left are so valuable. I wish I had a record of my younger years. I’ve forgotten so much already. When my mom tells storys about me it’s like she’s talking about a stranger.
It appears you saved up your creative energies for your adult life. Just think, had you brought out the big guns back in Jr. High, you might be writing boring crap inspired by Pwincess Pwecious instead of cool books about dead actresses.
I never kept a diary. I just didn’t have a flair for it, I guess. I was a great note-passer, though. And I was pretty good with a Slam Book in my day.
Do you have the bit where you learned how to masturbate?
Come on! That has to be good.
Oh Could you tell me who was the guest on the Carol Burnet show when they did that Jaws bit?
See? Valuable information is contained in there!
Well, I’m halfway through 1971 (I’m 14) and nothing interesting yet. School trips . . . science tests . . . vacation with Grandmom . . . Rita Hayworth guests on The Carol Burnett Show . . . got my braces off . . .
This stuff is only vaguely interesting to me, I really don’t think Posterity will curse me for shredding it. Now, once I get into high school and am 17 or 18, I’ll see what’s going on . . .
Eve, I began reading this thread to my husband and he went nuts. “How can she do that? It’s her life. You don’t shred your life!”
He, the pack-rat, is now quivering in facinated horror (“High School!! How can she shred High School!”
Personally, I think it’s good to purge everyone once in a while. Besides, as you write your autobiography, you can sum these years up with, “I was a whiny child, then I got better. Next Chapter!”
Calm Mr. DeVena (“DeVeno?”) down, dear. I want to be selective about what I leave behind–the books and magazine articles I’ve written; letters friends may have saved and–lord help us all–my posts here.
These diaries are not anything I wish to leave to posterity, and no sense my survivors feeling guilty about chucking them or feeling silly saving them. Next page into the shredder is April 30, 1971: “I just saw Fred Astaire on TV. He’s so old! His mother is 92! Dad and I are going to the library to see if any books are in. Then Mom’s taking me to Al Berman’s to exchange my blue jacket.”
When I was a freshman in high school, one of our teachers asked everyone to take out a sheet of paper and write their name on the back. He then asked us to write something for posterity – what we were looking forward to doing over the next for years, where we considered ourselves to be just then, and so forth. He told us that nobody would be reading these. They were for our own edification. We handed the papers in at the end of class and they were locked in a file drawer.
Four years later, as we were preparing to graduate, the same teacher came to visit our English class and delivered our papers (to those of us still at the school). I opened mine with great anticipation. What profound insights into my own growth would this time capsule provide? I was sorely disappointed. My entire two paragraph essay was nothing but a gripe over having taken a pop quiz I wasn’t ready for and that I was having a lousy week in general.