As I kept blogging—exposing my inner thoughts to the world—I gradually felt my self-consciousness begin to fray. At some point, writing itself started to feel painful.
A blog, an essay published online, is always written under the gaze of others.
When you keep doing that for a long time, it becomes exhausting.
And little by little, it feels as if your mind begins to crack.
Everything above this line is visible for free.
Long ago, before the internet became widespread, I used to write my diary in a paper notebook.
Back then, I could write every day without feeling tired at all.
Writing was pure joy.
I think that wasn’t just me—diaries used to be the king of tools for self-reflection, a place to express one’s inner world.
In many ways, simply scribbling down whatever was on your mind was the most enjoyable kind of writing.
But—and I’m not really in a position to judge others—when I look around social media today, I get the sense that many people don’t clearly distinguish between a diary and a blog.
Some people write whatever they want, almost like a diary driven by a hunger for approval.
Others write pieces that are practically monuments to their own self-consciousness.
Influencers, I suppose, are the ones who manage the balance skillfully.
On this platform, Note, there are several ways to charge for your content.
Memberships are one option, but some people put their entire magazine behind a paywall (like Banana Yoshimoto), and others sell individual articles.
When I decided to start charging, I struggled with the idea.
Was it really okay to accept money for something that felt like half-formed thoughts?
As someone who claims to be a writer, I felt a duty to offer something worthy of payment.
Otherwise, it felt like cutting corners—and that brought a kind of self-loathing.
Even though no one said anything, I could almost hear the criticism:
“Wow, you’re charging money for this?”
Out of all the monetization options, I chose membership because it lets me create a members-only bulletin board. That was a big factor.
If I combine members-only posts, serialized long-form fiction, and a more personal space for interaction on the bulletin board—if I treat it as a full package—then maybe it is okay to accept a bit of money, including as a form of support.
That’s why I chose the membership model.
Someone else’s diary—whether on paper or online—can sometimes feel embarrassing to read.
And a professional, tightly written essay can feel stiff and tiring.
Blogs live somewhere in between diaries and essays.
Maybe that vague gray zone is what makes them appealing.
I mentioned this before, but Nagai Kafū’s Danchōtei Nichijō is known today as real diary literature.
Yet he apparently kept another, truly personal diary in addition to the published one.
In other words, even Kafū’s “diary” was a work he wrote with readers in mind—a crafted piece of literature.
It might even have included a few exaggerations or lies.
If anything, that was the original blog.
If I’m going to charge for my writing, I want it to be something closer to a diary—
words born directly from daily reflection and thought.
Maybe that’s because writing that approaches the rawness of a true diary feels closest to the pure, private novel I’ve always wanted to create.
Well then—time to get back to my hobby, pure literature.
“Quietly,
I reread
an old forgotten diary.”
