Editor’s* Note: Hello and welcome to A-Mail!

There are lots of new subscribers here so thought it was worth a lil intro to me and this newsletter.

I’m Anna, I’m a writer and this is A-Mail. That’s it, that’s the intro. I’ll be honest with you – I don’t have a good explanation of what this newsletter is about! When pushed, I say that A-Mail is a collection of stories, essays and memes about work, money and power but in reality, it’s about nothing and everything. Which tells you… everything and nothing.

Maybe it doesn’t matter what I say my newsletter is about, what matters is if you like it and will accept my regular appearance in your inbox. In the writing biz, they call that “showing not telling”.

So lemme show you. Today’s post is about my notebooks (that’s the nothing part) and how archiving them led me to front my fear of being forgotten (that’s the everything part).

A work-in-progress of this essay was sent out as a Secret Draft Link to my paying readers aka my A-Mail Pros. Thanks especially for the early reads, input, and encouragement from Tiffany Philippou, Ariane Laurent-Smith , Ella, Claire and Cate.

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*lol who are we kidding here, I’m the writer, editor, and intern for this newsletter all at the same time.

The accidental archivist

I’ve always thought of myself as a digital writer.

While my published work does include a book and a handful of magazine pieces, the majority of my writing lives online. There are hundreds of articles under my byline on digital news sites across the World Wide Web, not to mention in this humble newsletter.

Over the Christmas break, while reorganising my study, a wave of handwritten fragments surfaced: notebooks with discarded ideas, diaries of teenage emotions, and scraps of paper marked with fleeting thoughts.

I gathered them all together, put them in a box and labelled it “Writing Archive”. I did that as an in-joke with myself. I’m not much of a collector, nor am I particularly sentimental about objects but I do hold on to pieces of paper. Calling my collection of discarded notebooks an “archive” permitted me to store them indefinitely.

But as I sorted through the notebooks, that silly joke morphed into something real. I found myself stepping into the role of the archivist, meticulously cataloguing each notebook and in turn categorising my life.

Here, in a world-first preview, are the contents of my archive, ranked in an order that only makes sense to me:

13. The blanks

This isn’t a metaphor – this is my stack of unused notebooks. Some of these were gifts, others I bought myself, but none of them were quite right. Either the paper stock was too grainy, the ink bled on the pages or – most commonly – the front page didn’t open quite right and the book wouldn’t lay flat. Sadly, if they don’t fulfil their purpose as books for notes, they shan’t be making it into the archive. 

12. Five-year memory book

Two years ago, while in Marylebone station, I walked into an Oliver Bonas and left with a canvas-cased book called “One Line A Day”. It’s the analogue version of that app where you record a second of your day: you write down a memory each day for five years. It’s cute and dumb. It was a very un-me purchase and what’s even more un-me is that I keep filling it out. TBD if I archive it. 

11. The “dirty” notebook

This is where I outline scene sketches for the porno I’m working on. JK! It’s much less sexy than that, it’s just a ratty pad I keep on my desk for scribbling things in. It’s always a Pukka pad. The price is right and the paper somehow feels fast? I can quickly scrawl in it while on a call. The whole point of this book is not to get precious about it. I’ve used A4 spiral bound for years but recently switched things up and am trying the reporter’s notebook version instead. Did you know that on the front page of a Pukka Pad reporter’s notebook, there’s a list of the 250 most commonly misspelt words? Misspell is one of them. 

10. House lists

Where I write our shopping lists, meal plans and other lifemin notes. An A5 Pukka Pad. You’d think something so mundane wouldn’t be worth archiving but I live for the minutia. This pasta sauce-stained pad is a love letter to the ordinary; the beating heart of our home!

9. Client notebooks

My professional thoughts and opinions deserve a smart home. I use the Muji “High Quality Recycling Paper Double Ring Notebook with Rubberband A5 Beige” in the dotted version which I like because the paper is heavy but silky at the same time. I also find its utilitarian product name appropriate for its purpose.

I used to use Pukka pads but I felt that was getting a bit too predictable and I was becoming uncomfortable with how much of my stationery budget was going into the pockets of Pukka Pad Ltd. In the writing of this newsletter, I was relieved to discover that I’m not the only one who’s questioned my over-reliance on the Pukka, as there are whole Reddit threads about whether it’s worth exploring other ’pad options on r/notebook.

8. Digital diary

Technically, this won’t make it into the physical archive but this is the point in this list where things get more interesting. Inspired by my friend Amelia Tait I now keep a digital diary. I like the idea of being able to CTRL+F on my emotions. Don’t worry, it’s in a password-protected file. I keep the diary in Word, partly because that’s what Amelia does and partly because, despite being a google docs girlie, big cloud files eventually become too slow to work with.

Someone once asked me if I’m not worried that I’ll get hacked. To that, I say, what an honour it would be if a hacker should deem my sad little inner thoughts worthy of an online leak!

I’m upset because I pitched the Guardian an idea and it got rejected. And I’m now annoyed at myself for getting so upset about it.

7. Morning pages

I go through phases of doing morning pages in the way Julia Cameron prescribes in the Artist’s Way, which is to write three pages of stream of consciousness first thing in the morning. As you’ll see later in this list, I now do my own modified version of it. But when I’ve done it “properly”, which is to dedicate a jotter to them, I have used…. a Pukka Pad. A5. ‘But Anna, what if you confuse your morning pages notebook for the house notebook and take it to Tescos with you!’ This is yet to happen. 

I’ve broken out in a few hives in my right arm. I’m sure it’s a coincidence and nothing to do with this exercise [of writing Morning Pages] but I’m writing it down because it popped into my head. 

6. Micro journal

All my digital diaries were influenced. This one by the YouTuber Caroline Winkler. I keep this in Keep (the Google version of iPhone Notes) and jot down thoughts and feelings while on the move. I call it a micro-journal because I want to relax the pressure of having to JOURNAL and just permit myself to write something short. Sometimes an entry is just a number for how I’m feeling out of 10. Also, what’s the difference between a journal and a diary? Judgement, as far as I can tell. 

Feb 16: 8/10. It’s hard to explain but I feel awful and amazing at the same time; it evens out and I land somewhere in the region of “I’m fine”

5. Day planner

My beloved daily planner. I call it my Air Traffic Control Logbook because without it, the planes crash and I have a fear of flying so that really is a level one disaster for me. This wasn’t bought, it was made. Well, I bought the blank planner – it’s also from Muji, a B5 spiral binder that opens so you can add in square graph paper. I wanted dotted but they don’t have that option. I designed the pages for the planner myself; each week, I print out a fresh set and stick them in, a bit like a Filofax.

The planner is based on a system I adapted from a cognitive behavioural therapy technique called “behavioural activation”. Every day has a check-in page where I clear my mind Morning Pages-style and dump out everything in my head. I find I don’t need a to-do list because that stream of consciousness tells me exactly what I need to get done and what can wait. I then write out my tasks for the day and assign them one of three categories: Necessary, Routine, Pleasure. The goal is to have a good mix across each day. I also track how I felt before I started a task and how I felt after.

Before I developed this intense productivity method, I used to bullet journal in the LEUCHTTURM1917 dotted notebooks. Each year was a different colour and obviously, they made it into the archive.  

4. The novels, life plans and dreams

These were notebooks I specifically started for ambitious projects. The weight of those books always ended up feeling too big so I don’t approach projects like this anymore.

I’m glad I’ve kept these because I found the tiny notebook that I started when I decided to go freelance and it was a gas reading it back. On the front page, I wrote: Anna’s Big Adventure! and underneath:

This book will serve as a reminder inspiration for the big plans I’m making about how I want to live my life.

I also have the notes for a novel idea I had when I was 23 and living in New York that is in a small, faux leather maroon notebook. I take comfort knowing it’s there but haven’t opened it in a decade.  

These notebooks are like tattoos, a moment in time etched on their pages. Some are more like clumsy poke-and-sticks, representing questionable decisions, others are works of art – all are cherished equally. 

2. Dog decline diary

When my dog Dolly was reaching the end of her life, our vet recommended we keep a diary of her symptoms. It was so we could see if and how she was declining. I got it out last week because our friends are struggling with their old dog. It was hard to read, especially where I taper off at the end but I’m glad I have it. I was able to see that a medication we tried on her did work for a short period and I recommended our friends try it, too. They did and their dog is doing good now. The pages end abruptly in August 2023, with less than a quarter of the book filled. The last entry just says:

Friday. Quite tired and weak.

1. Teenage diary

And lastly, my number one: the diary I started when I was 16 and continued writing in it up until my early 30s. It’s a thick, black, bound book that my dad bought me. I didn’t record any events, just how I was feeling in that moment. A bit like this: 

A therapist once told me that you should get rid of old diaries because of the emotional weight they carry. I kind of see the logic but I like having these relics of my past.

I’ve carted that thing around from the house I grew up in, to university, back and forth across the Atlantic and through every house move. It’s always lived either in the nightstand drawer or underneath the bed because I’d write it in before going to sleep.

But, when I went to find the diary to put in the archive, I realised it was missing.

It’s my most important collection of writing and now I can’t find it.

How will this read after I die?

In the last few years, I’ve started to think about how my diaries will read after I die.

In the unlikely event “Anna Codrea-Rado’s Unpublished Diaries” are somehow published, what picture would someone form of me if they only knew me through them?

Would they offer a glimpse into my inner world or just a grotesque collection of unfiltered thoughts and ripe emotions? Like rummaging through my garbage, they'd reveal something about my life, yes, but from the grossest perspective.

So then the question becomes: why am I saving this stuff? Is it just a case of the “just in cases” - keeping something on the slim chance I’ll need it in the future? But we’re not talking about clothing or kitchen gadgets here, these are my words and ideas.

Archiving isn't just about preserving the past; it's about confronting it. We curate our experiences, memories, and reflections, shaping our understanding of who we are and why. Some pieces make the cut, others fade away. This process forces us to confront the fragility of memory, the weight of our past, the yearning for legacy, and the inevitable march of oblivion.

Perhaps the most important question is: who am I saving this for? Because in leaving something behind, you do so not just for the world to remember you by, but for you to remember yourself.