Tegan,
I was never good at keeping a diary. When we began writing our memoir High School, you found your old journals, where you’d listed every social activity you attended over the summer of grade 11 and a guest list of attendees. (I jokingly referred to you as the Brett Kavanaugh of our band — what a P.O.S he is— because you referred to the diary as evidence of timeline slippage in my storytelling.) The archive of recordings, video tape and personal notes that exist, scattered amongst friends and family, helped us piece together a more authentic picture of the people we were in high school. But I can’t help but wonder what I could have learned about myself if I’d been more disciplined about keeping a formal record.
Mom kept a journal when we were kids as a project for one of her classes in college and I admired, even envied, her dedication to it. But after it was submitted, I don’t recall her continuing any kind of daily practice. Dad didn’t keep one as far as I’m aware of (how strange and thrilling to imagine he did.) Bruce, our stepdad, kept meticulous logs related to his workout regime, in leather bound books in the basement, and hundreds of poems (though he called them songs) set to popular music (Bruce Springsteen, mostly) in large black binders.
