I don’t know what came over me
Diary of an Author: 21-27 April 2025
21 April:
Last night while walking through the park I was approached by a hooded young man who asked me for the time. I looked at my watch and told him it had just gone quarter-past seven. “On your phone,” he said. I was a little surprised. While I knew that Gen Z were digital natives, I didn’t know they distrusted the accuracy of the analogue watch. I took my phone from my pocket and told him the exact time: seventeen past seven. He offered me a glimpse of something metallic in his pocket and told me to hand him my phone. It was at this moment that I realised I was being mugged. I was shocked and appalled. He told me to hurry up or I would “get shanked”. Since I had no desire to be shanked and appalled, I agreed to hand him the phone, but on one condition; that he permit me to reset it to factory settings first. This, I explained, was because my Notes application contained several unfinished poems. As a Serious Literary Author, I could not afford for these to fall into the wrong hands. If a writerly rival (wrival) gained access to my draft poems, they would likely try to pass them off as their own. For all I knew, he might end up selling my phone to another author – or he might even be an author himself. Besides, I added, an unlocked phone would be much easier to sell. It was the last point that seemed to convince him. He told me to do it quickly (again, lest I get shanked), so I immediately began the Erase and Install process. As the progress bar began its crawling journey, the young man became increasingly agitated, repeatedly looking over his shoulder. When it still wasn’t finished after five minutes, he demanded an update. I told him it was almost done, and must be taking a long time because of the sheer volume (and quality) of the poems. He told me to give him the phone, but I insisted on seeing the process through myself; if anything were to go wrong and cause it to cancel, my face would be required to unlock the phone again. I was simply trying to help. His agitation increased, particularly when he spotted the pair of dog walkers walking towards us. Give me the phone, he said. I told him I would oblige shortly; the Restore process was mere seconds away from completion. Sure enough, the phone emitted a welcoming ‘ding’ as the word ‘Hello’ appeared on the screen. The two dog walkers were close now. Give me the phone now, he said. Of course, I said, but first, what language do you require for the phone? Since he was clearly in such a rush, I explained, the least I could do was help speed things along by assisting him with the setup process. With the dog walkers now mere metres away, I watched the young man mentally weighing up his options. He then emitted a frustrated shout and ran away into the trees. I smiled to myself as I exited the park. As a Serious Literary Author, I do not write poems on my phone.
23 April:
Yesterday I met another author for coffee. After some pleasant literary chit-chat, we found ourselves discussing the topic of synesthesia. It turned out we both see words as colours, particularly the days of the week. He told me he sees Tuesday as green. I chuckled and said that for me it is blue. He then said the Monday is yellow. I smiled and corrected him that Monday is red. He said that Saturday is blue. I was shocked and appalled. Saturday is quite clearly a gunmetal grey. He then said—and I’m not making this up—that Wednesday is orange. This was clearly outrageous; Wednesday is a soft burgundy with flecks of cerulean. He then described Friday as light green (it is soft amber with a taupe trim), and Thursday as purple (it is dark fuchsia). It was at this point that I’m ashamed to say I slapped him. I don’t know what came over me. I just saw red.
24 April:
I have decided, after reading a motivational poster, to start living each day like it is my last. Today was day one. I woke up early, called my parents and told them the sad news. They were devastated. After sending a group text to some close friends, I began sorting my affairs; writing my will, cancelling contracts and bequeathing my Substack account to a responsible heir. When I was finally ready to leave the house it was dark outside, so I stayed in and watched videos of other people skydiving. If I’m honest, it hasn’t been that great a day, and I’m not hugely excited about doing it all again tomorrow.
25 April:
Over the last few days I have received messages from several publishers accusing me of inventing my own literary agent in an attempt to get a book deal. Apparently they do not believe that Paniel Diper is a real person.
26 April:
Last night I went on a date. It went well, and I would like to see her again. As a Serious Literary Author, ‘texting’ is not my most natural writing domain, but I knew my message to her today needed to be perfect, striking a seamless balance of eagerness and nonchalance. To achieve this, I wrote the whole message in lowercase, deployed some choice ‘text speak’ (“lol”), and included a subtle blend of affectionate and ambivalent sentiments. Finally, I needed to decide how many kisses to end with, eventually opting for a cool eight. Reading it back, I think my message strikes the perfect tone:
hi. i had a really nice time on our date. or not. whatever. i would like to do it again some time. or not. whatever. lol. i love you. i think i want to spend the rest of my life with you. or not. whatever. i don’t care. lol. i’m chill. i hate you. kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss.
27 April:
This week’s final diary entry is exclusively for paid subscribers