Like many anguished teens, I often felt that my best friend was my diary. I would enter my bedroom in a terrible mood, but as the sentences took shape on the page, whatever was troubling me no longer felt like quite as much of a catastrophe. I wasn’t able to extinguish every sadness, but often felt calmer, as if a physical pressure had lifted from my chest.
These moments always brought to mind a scene in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in which the headteacher at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, extracts upsetting memories with his magic wand and places them in a shallow bowl, called the “pensieve”, which allows him to view things more dispassionately. Writing, for me, provided the same relief.
