I write most of my account in plain-hand, to be read by anyone. I have the volumes in my study; they are not hidden, though I doubt any of my family would dare to touch them, let alone read them. They bristle when they see me make a note of something and their eyes roll as I skip upstairs for my time alone with a pen and an empty page to fill. They do not understand my diary writing. My passion. It has become such a part of me. My mind is attuned to remember details, as though viewing my life as an observer ready to record. As events unfold, I am already thinking of how I will explain and describe it in words in my diary, deciding what I will keep and record. Sometimes there are moments which I consciously decide to omit. I edit my diaries in my head, in my pocketbook and in the writing of them. Perhaps I do it to protect my future self, or protect the contents from prying eyes. But then some of my deepest thoughts and sadness I cannot deny from my diary. It seems easier to write of sadness and disappointment; to capture it in words is to lessen the feeling of it, as if shared with a sympathetic friend, whilst the pleasurable times I find myself skipping over in a few lines, as I’m sure I will remember them well without much prompting.

At first, I wanted to record everything factually, but my own voice and feelings crept in and I realised a factual account served no purpose to anyone, least of all myself. I decided I would write everything, painful and personal or otherwise. Of course, to write anything so personal one must be careful about who may see it. So I devised a code, as Eliza and I once had in our letters to each other, and then became so familiar with it that it is as quick to write as plain-hand. The code gives me freedom to write about personal feelings, intimacy, my body and health and my finances, should prying eyes ever peer.

Miss Walker

She will be writing about me! I am in her diary. From the day we first re-met after her latest travels, Miss Lister will have recorded me, described me. I imagine she writes exactly what she thinks. Does she think me plain? Shy? Dull? I must become more interesting! I must seem so boring compared to her.

What I wouldn’t give to read of one of her diaries! She tells me any personal information is in code. From what I saw when she gave me a glimpse of them in her study, her handwriting is nearly as illegible as any code.