Since I was fourteen years old at boarding school, I have been keeping a record of events. It began with a small diary—blank pages gradually filled with accounts of what I believed to be true or what others had done or told me. I never had a taste for fiction; instead, I’ve always preferred the unembellished reality of experience.

Throughout undergraduate studies and law school, the habit continued. Each entry reflected the world around me—what I saw, heard, and felt. When I began practicing law and computers became common, I transitioned to digital writing, cataloguing entries in growing folders. None of it was public. It was a private ledger of life.

That changed after retirement, when I discovered Substack. The idea of publishing online, sharing what had once been a private habit, intrigued me. But the shift from personal archive to public platform brought challenges I hadn’t anticipated.

A woman once sent me a photograph she had taken of the river near my home. I used it as the featured image for a blog entry, not realizing that she would take offense. She was upset that I hadn’t asked permission or credited her. I was disheartened—it had never been my intent to expropriate her work. I removed the photo.

Another incident involved a family member going through a difficult personal transition. Though I never used names or direct identifiers, he recognized himself and objected to the portrayal. Again, I took the writing down.

Most recently, someone close to me expressed a more general unease with the idea of appearing in my writing, even by implication. I understand the discomfort. These moments have taught me that even when writing without names, people can see themselves—and feel exposed.

So I’ve learned to dilute. To soften, obscure, or excise anything that might resemble identification. It’s a disarming process. For someone committed to recording truth, it feels like surrender. But discretion must accompany publication. I am not a fiction writer. I cannot invent. I write from what is, or what was. That’s my inheritance and my burden.

In youth, life provided many plateaux—perspectives, adventures, conflicts, and characters from which to build a narrative. Now, my sphere is smaller. I correspond with only a few people. Much of what I write comes from solitary reflection—armchair philosophizing, some of which may strike others as sentimental or tedious.

And yet, what I’ve discovered—often from those who read my work—is that stories grounded in lived reality hold interest. There is something enduringly compelling in what real people do, say, and feel. That is what I try to honor in my writing. It is not spectacle, and it is not fiction. It is the quiet practice of bearing witness.