Story of the Day

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood

I read something recently during one of the many frenzied rabbit holes I regularly burrow down in search of distractions disguised as productivity hacks, ways to optimize and maximize the time I am so clearly wasting reading blogs and videos with titles like “How to Not Waste Time Reading Blogs and Watching Videos.” Somewhere during one such spiral, I stumbled upon a journaling technique called the Story of the Day.

I have no idea where I first read about it, even though this particular journey originally began with the intent to research how to build what a handful of productivity bros on the internet call a Second Brain; an easily accessible database of everything you find interesting, intriguing, and helpful all gathered in one place, like Google but only for you. Once this resource is built, the idea is you can effortlessly tap into your vast collection to surface whatever tiny morsel of wisdom is most helpful to you at any given moment.

I plan on building mine right after I finish working on my first brain.

The instructions for creating a Story of the Day journal are simple: you are only allowed to write two to three sentences at the end of every day. These micro entries don’t have to be about a big event, necessarily. Sure, some days the story is clear; the birth of your firstborn, for example. But most days you’ll find yourself writing about something small; a tender moment shared with a squirrel while sitting on a park bench or a laugh you had with the person behind you in line for coffee.

Proponents of this journaling style discussed the clarity it gave them to not only look back on the day and determine what’s worth including each night, but also to have a short record of one’s days, a flip book of moments or moods or interactions that help stitch together a larger meaning for the time that seems to be going by faster with every passing year.

More clarity? More meaning? And I only need to write two to three sentences?

I was sold.

I made my first entry from my tiny Airbnb in Madrid, sitting on the edge of a thin mattress while a couple argued loudly next door. The first few nights were harder than I thought, and not just because I expected the neighbors to burst through my bedroom wall at any moment like the Kool-Aid man.

My instinct in journal writing is to unload every petty thought onto the page where it can do far less damage than if left banging around my head, which means I usually ramble on for paragraphs before I get to anything interesting, much less coherent. I am verbose, which is a word I know because I have been called verbose.

Three sentences? That sum up the entire day? Is that even possible?

At first, I felt constrained by the staccato entries I jotted down, which sounded less like a story and more like a soldier’s letter home from war that was written by flashlight with a pen almost out of ink.

“This morning I went for a run along the river. I spent a couple hours writing in the park and then Cristian invited me over to make patacones and dance in his kitchen. I finally got to use the bike share system and rode home listening to Taylor Swift.”

That’s it? Was that all that happened? Where’s the story, the emotion, the jokes?

Night after night I’d open the journal and stare at it for a while, reflecting back on what exactly had unfolded that day, what merited inclusion, what was worth remembering and what I could let go. Over time it got easier, and I’m happy to report this practice of reflection has, in fact, given me more clarity - even if I still haven’t gotten around to building my Second Brain.

It’s been about a month now and Wednesday was the first time I didn’t have to think for a moment about what to include.

“This morning we found out Trump won. Again. I will keep making art, because it’s the only thing I can do.”

Like most people in my life, I had spent the day slightly weepy, ashamed by the resounding decision my country made to choose a cruelty we were all familiar with, a callousness we had experienced before.

“Am I just supposed to keep making videos on the internet?” I texted a friend. “And writing silly little stories?”

“Yes,” she responded. “It’s kind of what you do.”

And she was right.

I’ve always told stories, in one medium or another, and I always will. My hope is that they might help in some small way, even as I know they won’t turn the tide against the coming darkness.

But it doesn’t matter; I’ll keep writing and making and sharing, tunneling into myself to try and find the light, bit by bit, day by day.