I Hate Journaling Novels & Stories

I have only met one pack member who makes me feel comfortable, and her name is Grace. I wish I had my old diary. Graham made me burn my old ones. He said the practice of writing down one's life was childish, so he made me destroy them myself. He said it was symbolic. Burning the old Hazel so I can become better. I got this journal in secret. I don't know how I'm going to get away with entries without him noticing. But I'm going to try. Otherwise, I think I will die from loneliness. Love Hazel A deep sadness fills me as I finish Hazel's first entry. I wish I could talk to her and give her a hug. It must have been awful to be cut off from everyone you know and love. I take a deep breath and fl

“It’s called introspective journalling, whereby you write down your true thoughts… unfiltered and completely honest.” “And… why would I do that?” I couldn’t even begin to imagine what would happen if my unfiltered journal ends up in the wrong hands. “Because you only get to know what your problems truly are when you pen them all down to a page.” “Hm… can’t I just think them in my head?” “You wouldn’t be here if that had worked its wonders, would you?” I definitely wouldn’t be sitting here, in front of the lady who reminds me so much about Isabella that it stings… if overthinking had helped matters.

She's obsessed. Those revenge fantasies are unhinged. She needs therapy not a platform. Some defend me. Talk about how journaling dark thoughts is healthy processing. But they're drowned out by the hatred, the judgment, the gleeful mockery of my pain. "Forbes." The word comes out choked. "My feature. The cover consideration. They're going to pull it. Nobody wants to feature someone whose private journal makes them look unstable." "We don't know that," Marcus says, but his tone suggests we do know that.

' Rachael complained inwardly. "Oh, I'm sorry!" Lily realized slowly. "I don't beat around the bush. I say everything that comes to mind. Please don't be mad!" Maisie smiled in embarrassment. "You're right. I have no talent in that, indeed. But I love writing. That's the reason why I want to be a journalist." "Do you really like it?" "Yes! I have the habit of journaling. Whenever something bothers me, I love to sit down and write… I feel relaxed whenever I write. All of the bad feelings are gone after I write!"

/ Still Her — Episode 5 (Draft) They’re quoting me now. Not my public quotes. Not my interviews. My journal. The pages I wrote at 2:00 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep. The ones I never meant to publish. They’re using words like “obsessed” and “fantasy” and “unreliable.” As if grief isn’t chaotic. As if longing makes you dangerous. As if dreaming is a flaw. So this week, I’m going to read my journal entries myself. Not in shame. Not in fear.

I said, taking a deep breath before placing my journal on his desk. His eyes darted to the journal; confusion clear on his face. “What is this?” He asked, unmoving. “It’s my journal,” I told him. “Joseph had the idea a few months ago that I should start making my blog more personal. Writing about things that truly matter. I was trying too hard to make my blog a fiction platform, but that’s not what people want in a blog. They expect fantasy in books and stories, but they seek blogs out for relatable content and advice.”

I hate him and I hate him so much it hurts to pr‍etend otherwise. ⁠The air leaves my lungs in a slow, hollow rush.‌ I⁠ snap the journal sh⁠ut and s⁠h‍ove it away‍ from me like it might burn my skin if I ho‍ld onto it a⁠ny lon‍ger. If‍ there was any⁠ pa‌rt of me that believed this could end differently, that part is gone now. The truth is right there in ink and paper. Liana hates me and that is all I need to know.

Even when I am writing I couldn't hold my tears back. Writing a journal is like sharing a secret with your friend. If you are troubled, you will get a different insight while writing your problems which help you solve them or overcome them. A journal is like a best friend who will console you, gives you a different perspective of your problems, and listens to you ranting patiently. You will always feel light after writing everything like after talking with your best friend. Sweet dreams were broken When I looked upon the sky Hateful words spoken I thought to say my goodbyes

It was during these dark moments that I would often question myself and my efforts. "Ivy," I confessed one night as we were in bed, my voice tinged with frustration. "I'm doing everything you recommended—I journal, I meditate, I seek support—yet some days, it feels like I'm just going in circles. I hate myself for not being able to move forward."

Another failure. My expression didn’t change. To say I wasn’t disappointed would be a lie. But after thousands of failures, the feeling barely left a mark on me anymore. Instead, I preferred focusing on more practical things. Like reviewing the entire process in my mind, searching for where it went wrong. Afterward, I picked up a thick, leather-bound journal: one of many, from the side table and flipped to a half-filled page. This was my 8,999th entry, each one a record of another ruined attempt.