Devina Divecha's Journals

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. It started when my maternal grandfather handed me a diary when I was about 7 years old, and told me to write. And I dutifully did.

I wrote about my Mathematics class and how much I hated it. I wrote about the chicken sandwich I had for lunch. A few years later, the entries told the story of how sad I was to fight with my best friend. I recounted an incident in a playground that made me feel small. I talked about the hard work I was putting in for an exam. I recorded the time I first spoke to a boy I liked. Of when my first unrequited ‘love’ was (ever so politely and kindly) rejected. I penned angst-filled poems inspired by toxicity that didn’t deserve any odes. I cried while writing. I still do sometimes.

Outside of my diary, my trusty friend, I kept writing. I wanted to be a journalist, I decided. I knew this at the age of 16. And so I just went about making sure it happened.

But dear reader, when you’re penning more than a 1,000 words a day, when you’re editing perhaps more, and doing all the things that adults do that exhaust you to your core (admin and paperwork, I’m looking at you)… the last thing you want to do, is write for yourself.

So I did the most logical thing. I joined a writers’ group. A few members of the book club I go to (it’s great, join us!) are in the same group and extended a tentative invite to join. “Would you be interested?” they wondered. I was.

I told myself that this year I must continue to push myself to do something new. And so I have. We spend part of our regular meetings on writing prompts. I’m going to start sharing the results of these prompts here… just as a reminder of how I started, what I am capable of, and where I want to go.

Until then, au revoir.