Freedom Writers Diary Book Novels & Stories

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. Just some old notes. Private shit.” Private. Yeah right. The word only made my curiosity burn hotter, mixing with the ache in my cock that hadn’t gone down one bit. While he stood up to grab another bottle of whiskey from the bar cart across the room, I leaned forward quickly and clicked on the locked file. A password prompt popped up. Fuck. I tried the obvious ones fast,his book title, his name, the date on the manuscript. Nothing. Then on a hunch I typed in a phrase from one of his filthiest scenes. The file opened.

Darius's POV I just wish someone would pop out of nowhere and tell me that I wasn't like my father—that I was different. But even if they did, I knew they would be lying. They would just be sugarcoating it. My hands reached out, pulling the diary out from beneath the pillow. I flipped the pages, stopping when I reached the last page that was specifically written for me, and then I started rereading it, stopping at the word freedom. It was an essential, pardonable thing in everybody's life, and that was the reason Mom died—because hers was taken away from her by her once beloved husband.

I said, laughing a little. I hung up and walked to the corner of the room. A cardboard box sat on a low shelf, its edges stained with gray ash. I pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. The smell of smoke still clung to it. This was the diary Gideon risked his life for in the West Wing fire. I sat on the floor and opened it. The handwriting turned into a man's sharp, controlled cursive at the end. I found the last page Gideon had written while I was gone.

“And being taken away from the people you cared about is another thing. Would you like to talk more about it?” “The only thing that kept me going was the hope that Mad and my friends never stopped looking for me. The next morning, they allowed me to walk on the ground. I’m a writer. Franco brought me a typewriter. I used my time writing instead of dwelling on what would have happened to me in that place. I was so scared to even close my eyes because they locked the door from the outside.” “Let’s talk about something less heavy. I noticed how to grip his hand. What were you writing about?”

"How did you find the capacity to write all of this knowing that he would eventually read it?" I met her gaze directly. "Strength is not the absence of fear," I said. "It is the willingness to move forward through it, to claim what belongs to you even when the act of claiming it is uncomfortable or frightening or costly. I write because I am free. Not because I want him to feel anything. Because I am free and my freedom includes the right to document my own experience in my own words without requiring anyone else's permission." Another question followed, from a younger person who looked as if they were working up the nerve to ask something they had been sitting with for the duration of the r

For the first time in a long while, I could breathe without feeling like someone would be coming after me anytime soon. Later that night, after the house was quiet and the kids were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with a pen and the journal. I started to write, the words pouring out into the pages from my heart, and when I got to the end, I wrote, “I don’t know if we won.” My hand paused. I thought about the embassy burning, and the bodies left behind. I thought about the people who’d gone through just a fraction of what I’d gone through and had never made it this far. I picked up my pen again.

I start to write, my hand moving quickly across the paper: "Dear Diary, I did it. I spent an entire day naked, and it was the most liberating experience of my life. I felt so free, so uninhibited. I did everything naked – watched TV, ate, cleaned the house, even danced around like a fool. And you know what? It was amazing. I felt sexy and powerful and alive. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I might do it again sometime. Maybe next weekend. Wish me luck!"

Some fear it. And some — like Ravi — deny it. I started keeping a diary. Not for the usual entries about daily chores or college notes. But for feelings. Sometimes I wrote about the way my body felt after those secret moments at night. Sometimes I wrote letters — unsent — to Ravi, begging him to see me, to want me. Sometimes I wrote fantasies — ones I didn’t even know I had. Each word bled emotion. Each page carried the weight of years of suppression.

I opened the cover revealing the thin gray lines running down the first page and grabbed a pen from the cup on the left hand side of the desk. Dear Diary, I don't even know where to start considering that this will be my first time "reflecting" on what my mother would call "sinful mistakes". I don't know what the opinion of a girly ass pink diary would be on the topic but prepare yourself for the story of a lifetime. I don't want to leave out the back story and I've gotta start somewhere right, so why not at the beginning?

The hand wrote on the book with enthusiasm. The black pen against the book was something the writer had gotten accustomed to in a short period of time. He wrote down, Dear diary, For the first time, I'm convinced that I am doing the wrong thing but I can't seem to stop myself. Every passing day I have my patience deteriorating and.... He hesitated before sighing and tearing the page off. Closing the book, he threw it on the table and laid on the couch jadedly.