On keeping a five-line diary

I have started and abandoned more diaries than I can count. There was a leather one from a market in Manchester that I wrote in for nine days in 2009. There was a beautiful Japanese one so expensive I was too frightened to use it. Most of them are now holding up a wobbly shelf.

The one I’ve kept going for four years is the plainest notebook I own, and the trick is that I’m only allowed five lines a night.

How it started

It began during my first winter in Lisbon, when the flat was cold and I was lonely in the way you only are in a city where you can order a coffee but not yet make a joke. Rosie suggested I write things down so I’d have something to tell her on our Sunday calls. I tried full pages and gave up within a week. Then I tried five lines, and somehow that stuck.

Five lines is short enough that I can’t make excuses. It takes about three minutes, usually on the balcony, usually with whatever’s left in the glass.

The rules, such as they are

• Five lines. Not six. If a day deserves more, it gets a photograph instead.
• At least one thing I ate, because food is how I remember everything.
• At least one thing someone said, in their words, not mine.
• No feelings written as feelings. If I was sad, I write what I saw while I was sad.
• Missing a night is fine. Making it up the next day is not.

That fourth rule sounds odd, but it’s the one that makes the diary worth rereading. “I felt low” tells me nothing a year later. “Sat on the steps by the miradouro and watched a pigeon try to eat a whole bread roll” tells me exactly what kind of low it was — the kind that gets better.

Some entries

Here’s an ordinary week from this September, copied out word for word, crossings-out removed for dignity.

Monday. Rain on the skylight at 6am. Tomatoes from Senhor Abel, €1.80, the last good ones he says. Dona Fernanda: “You say obrigada like you’re apologising.” Edited 4,000 words on pension law. Toast for dinner, no regrets.

Wednesday. The 28 broke down outside the Sé and everyone got off and walked, like a school trip. A man carried a cello. Bought sardines at the market. Grilled them on the balcony; smoke alarm went off; neighbour cheered.

Friday. Supper club. Eight people, one pot of rice with clams, two forks short. Ana brought her new boyfriend, who washed up without being asked. We approve. Bed at one.

Sunday. Slept until nine like a teenager. Sent the letter. Rosie says the baby is kicking. Figs on the windowsill going soft. Called it a day before lunch.

None of it is literature. That’s the point. When I flip back through the notebook I don’t find my life summarised; I find it in pieces, which is how I actually lived it. I wrote a bit about this sort of smallness in notes from a small flat in Lisbon, and the diary is the same idea on paper.

If you want to try it, start tonight. Five lines. Something you ate, something someone said. You’ll be surprised how much a Tuesday holds.