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What should in an ideal world define someone as a writer?
一个理想的世界是如何定义作家的？
It isn’t that they publish books, or give talks at literary festivals or wear black; it’s that they belong to a distinct group of people who - whenever they are confused or in distress - gain the greatest possible relief from jotting things down.
在这个世界里，作家不需要出版书籍，在文学节上发表演讲，或者穿黑色衣服；他们是一个与众不同的群体，每当感到困惑或痛苦时，他们就会写些东西，并从中获得极大的解脱。
‘Writers’ in the true sense are those who scribble - as opposed to drink, exercise or chat - their way out of pain.
真正意义上的“作家”是那些通过文字，而不是通过喝酒、锻炼或聊天来摆脱痛苦的人。
The act of writing, especially in a journal or diary, is filled with therapeutic benefits.
写作这一行为，尤其是写日志或日记，非常有益于疗伤。
So deeply do certain ideas threaten the status quo, even if they ultimately offer us benefits, the mind will ruthlessly ‘forget’ them in the name of a quiet life.
某些想法会让我们无法过好当下，即使它们最终带来了一些好处，我们的头脑也会为了让我们过上平静的生活而无情地“忘记”它们。
But our diaries are a forum in which we can raise and then galvanise ourselves into answering the large questions which lie behind the stewardship of our lives:
但我们的日记是一个平台，我们可以在这个平台上提出问题，并激励自己回答这些努力生活的过程中存在的重要问题：
What do I really want?
我真正想要的是什么？
Should I leave?
我该离开吗？
What do I feel for them?
我对他们有什么感觉？
We may not quite know what we want to say until we’ve started to write; writing begets more writing.
只有我们真正开始写作，才会明白自己想要说什么；写作会激发你写下去的欲望。
The first sentence makes the second one clearer.
第一句话是第二句话的铺垫。
After a short paragraph that was summoned from apparent air, we start to know where this might be going.
根据我们的生活写出一小段话之后，我们开始明白接下来该写些什么。
We learn what we think in the process of being forced to utter ideas outside of our swampy minds.
在被迫从自己沼泽般的头脑中提取想法的过程中，我们明白了自己所想的是什么。
The page becomes a guardian of our authentic elusive self.
日记的页面成为了守护者，守护我们真实却难以捉摸的“自我”。
Here we can make vows and attempt to stick to them:
在这里，我们可以许下誓言，并尝试坚守这些誓言：
No more humiliation!
不要再感到羞耻！
The end of masochism!
不要再做受虐狂！
Ordinary life can seem to have no place for stock-taking and moments of grand enquiry.
平凡的生活似乎容不下自我盘点和对重大问题的质疑。
But the page demands and rewards them:
但日记要求我们提出这些问题，并会对我们给予奖励：
What am I trying to do?
我想要做什么？
Who am I?
我是谁？
What is meaningful for me?
对我来说什么是有意义的？
We’d never get away with such things at the dinner table, even among people who claim to love us - but here they make sense.
我们永远不会在餐桌上做这样的事情，即使是在那些声称爱我们的人面前——但写在日记里面，它们就是有意义的。
We can look back at what we’ve written and understand.
我们可以回顾并理解我们曾经所写的东西。
The page is a supreme arena for processing.
日记的页面是回顾过去的最佳地点。
We can drain pain of its rawness.
我们可以控制自己的痛苦。
We can get used to disasters and stabilise joys.
我们可以学会习惯灾难的发生，让欢乐得以安定。
We can turn panic into lists.
我们可以把恐慌转化为清单。
Five ways to survive this.
五种挺过去的方法。
Six things I am going to tell them.
我要告诉他们六件事。
Four reasons not to despair.
不要陷入绝望的四个理由。
We won’t need to be so jittery in the world outside after we have told the notebook all this.
在我们把这一切都写在笔记本里之后，就不会在现实世界那么紧张不安了。
The page becomes a laboratory in which to try out what might shock and surprise.
这些页面变成了一个实验室，供我们尝试可能令人震惊和惊喜的东西。
We don’t need to honour everything we say.
我们不需要一步步按自己说过的话去做。
We’re giving it a go and seeing how we feel.
我们在不断尝试，并且体味自己的感受。
It’s the first draft of a letter to ourselves.
这是一封写给我们自己的信的初稿。
Looking back at what we have written should be embarrassing, if what we mean by that is hyperbolic, disjointed, uncertain and wild.
回顾自己所写的东西会让人觉得尴尬，因为我们觉得那些东西夸张、杂乱、多变且狂乱。
If we aren’t appalled by much of what we have said to ourselves, we aren’t beginning to be truthful - and therefore won’t learn.
如果没有被我们对自己说的话吓到，我们也就不会坦诚——因此也学不到东西。
If in ordinary life we make a little more sense than we might, if we are a bit calmer than we were, it’s perhaps because - somewhere in a drawer - there are pages of tightly compressed handwriting that have helped us to understand our pain, safely explore our fantasies and guide us to a more bearable future.
如果我们的日常生活比以前更有意义，如果我们比以前更冷静一些，那可能是因为——在抽屉的某个地方——有很多页写得密密麻麻的日记帮助我们理解自己的痛苦，安全地探索自己的幻想，并引导我们走向更舒心一点的未来。
