Diary Writing Novels & Stories

I went to my desk, pulled open the drawer, and grabbed my diary. My pen hovered for a while, but then I scribbled just one sentence: “I can’t keep doing this.”

July 2nd, 1943- First Diary Entry. I hate writing and I don't know why granny gave me a diary for my birthday I mean it's a book, I can't even eat it and it's not even cute. Anyway, granny said I would know what to write about when it was time but I think the crazy is getting to her.

I think I need to buy more because what is happening is so exciting for me. In just one day, I use two pages just to tell what happened in my day and how I narrate about what happened when I killed one of my classmates. My diary is literally my friend. He knows a lot about me rathe than a person who doesn’t know even a single fact about me. Even my family does not know the real me. Dear Diary,

A diary! Does she write diaries? Impressive. I was suddenly curious to know about her. What she wrote there. I opened the first page and was met with a not so clear handwriting but it was beautiful, "Hey dear diary, from now on you are my only friend as no one wants to talk with me because of my stuttering problem." The mention of the stuttering problem gave me goosebumps. It felt familiar!! HER thoughts came to mind. My hands tightened on the diary.

Dear Diary; What a ridiculous thing to do! I have never kept a diary in my entire life. Why now? I will tell you why… I have too much to say and no one to say it to… so here it goes. My name is Zinnia, full name… that I will keep to myself. Thank you very much! I am still in bed, whilst writing in this stupid diary, I am worried about the day ahead. Dawn has not broken yet, and I wish it would never break.

Sophia opened the first page of the diary and her attention was immediately captivated by the first lines. "Dear Sophia," the diary began, each word etched onto the yellowed paper with a sense of urgency and purpose, "maybe it's time to tell you about my life when things weren't so easy. The moment when I had to commit crimes ..."

I didn’t want to be unguarded. “What’s wrong, Kriti ji?” he asked, face falling in soft concern. “Nothing,” I said timidly. I looked at my diary and was uncomfortable with him there, in front of me. I had never been able to write in front of anyone. I had kept it a secret since I was sixteen. He sat on the corner of the bed. My diary had always been my friend, my respite from loneliness, and the bond I shared with her was too special for anyone to understand.

They had no idea that I would be perfectly content to eat with my bare hands as a less fortunate child as long as I could feel like I was part of a complete family, even if it was only for a brief moment in my life. And as a child, I was always finding myself shutting myself away in my room, writing stories about things that I wished would happen in real life but never did. Because of my depression and remorse for having been neglected and unwanted, that had become my only outlet. Having discovered the benefits of carrying around a diary when I was a teenager, I was finally able to express all of my inner demons and thoughts through the medium of writing. In this environment, I was able to w

He frowned seeing me but let it go. "You have a habit of writing diary.....!! why??" He asked being curious. "What why...!!! I just like to write it." I said but he didn't seems to agree with my half statement. I not lie. I like diary writing it gives me a piece of mind to share my things with something or this diary is more like someone to me. He was about to ask further but I again cut him off to escape from his question hour session. "Aa-aah Da-Damien I ne-need t-o go.I have to prepare din-dinner too." I said and rushed from their with my things without letting him to speak anything further because right now I won't be able to say anything further.

Port in the Storm Dear Diary, I know I’m probably too old for this, but my best friend is on digital detox and I hate almost everyone at work enough not to engage them in my silly misadventures. I would have probably told my mother by her grave, but somehow writing this down feels right and more real. It feels like I am telling a supernatural spiritual being, perhaps an angel? Who knows? They might be real after all.