There are two kinds of people in this world: those who make it through the year with a single diary, and those who find themselves, come June, squinting at a fraying January-to-December planner, wondering how it all went so sideways.
I, regrettably or proudly (depending on the day), fall into the latter camp. I love a physical diary — the tactile feel of crisp paper, the quiet satisfaction of crossing things off, the illusion of control. But I also tend to abandon them somewhere between Easter and high summer, only to re-emerge mid-year with a new pen and renewed optimism.
