I have something in common with the author Joan Didion, who is about to publish the unedited notebooks she used over the years.

Why did she jot things down?

Apparently to remind herself of the good and the bad in her life that she might otherwise have forgotten.

“I think we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not,” she said. “We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were.”

She’s right about that.

I, too, have made entries in diaries and notebooks most of my life. The first was during my senior year of high school in the 1960s. The most recent is on my nightstand.

And I occasional read them. The other day, I consulted one to refresh my memory of when Dorette and I had our first date. It was May 31, 1993.

Since I’m not Joan Didion, my notebooks and diaries won’t be published. When I’m gone, only my executor and heirs will see them. Their reaction will likely be: “Dave, we never really knew you.”

Then, if my wishes are carried out, the stuff will be placed in a dumpster for recycling or disposal in a landfill.

Unlike in Didion’s case, my fame will be fleeting indeed.