I always get this wide-eyed, incredulous look every time I tell friends that I’ve been recording my life daily since 2002. It’s either they find it amazing, cute, awesome… or another manifestation of my OC behavior that most of them detest. I choose not to care.
I tell my wife: “If ever I become a Dead Famous Writer, publishers will be tripping over themselves to get their hands on those notebooks and planners. Entertain only those whose offers are more than seven digits.” A joke, of course. In all likelihood I’ll just be another Dead Obscure Writer (or worse, a Dead Wanna-be Writer), and those notebooks and planners will only be good for termite chow.
But as long as I’m breathing, those books will be strictly for my eyes only.