Editing
With a sigh, he tore another page out of his diary. So much that he'd done, but it was all bluster and thunder. With each tear, he threw away another part of his past.
Meeting people for lunch, commenting on their clothing. Three years on, he couldn't picture their faces, but he could see their suit, the way they folded their arms. It meant nothing to him any more, so he threw it away.
Other things meant so much more. The fights, the fear, the almost infidelity. Written in code, so that they would mean something to him, but nothing to any future biographer. There wouldn't be a future biographer. Torn out, thrown away. Past mistakes forgotten that should never have been recorded.
Other things in there, jokes and lists, notes and scribbles. The running tally, the recipes, the pictures of cartoon characters. Everything that once meant something, but now means nothing, he tears out.
Later, he rescues the pages and pastes them in to a scrap book.
Assuming the inevitable degree of autobiography in any fiction, aren't you young fashionable types all meant to be living minimalist stylee? Surfaces, surfaces, surfaces! Surely that doesn't sit very well with hoarding?
I reckon at least 90% of *diarists* do that.
I do it all the time ;)
Have you backed up your blog??