There are people who write novels. And then there’s people like me—who passionately write novels in the Notes App. Not on purpose. By accident. Basically the same thing, no?
I open it at least 26 times a day, rarely for what it’s meant for. Grocery lists? Sure. Though I’ll still come home with mini strawberry-flavoured Vaseline (which was not on the list), and no toilet paper or olive oil. Who cares about eggs and milk when you’ve got strawberry Vaseline in your pocket? Priorities.
But also:
- Emotional breakdowns disguised as Lana Del Rey lyrics.
- Passive-aggressive monologues I’ll never send.
- Book titles I thought of in the shower, like “Men I’ve Dated and Other Jumpscares.”
My Notes app is a modern-day Hannah Montana diary—except instead of unlocking it with a glittery heart-shaped lock, you need Face ID. And instead of crush updates written with pom-pom pens, it’s filled with:
- To-do lists I’ll never do.
- One-liners I’m convinced are genius.
- Something I typed half-asleep that just says: “Can you be jet-lagged from emotional travel?”
It’s the same chaos, just rebranded for adulthood. A safe space where your inner child, inner critic, and inner overworked executive assistant all scream into the same digital void. And the wild part? I’m fully convinced: This could be a book.
Every note somehow feels like a chapter:
- Chapter 1: How to Reinvent Yourself Without Anyone Noticing
- Chapter 7: Conversations I’ve Rehearsed in My Head but Never Had (and Frankly Never Should)
- Chapter 19: Do Not Open This Note. It’s Just Feelings. (I always open it.)
One day, someone’s going to inherit my Notes app. I hope by then, iPhones are extinct. If not, I hope they’re mentally stable. Or at least holding snacks.
I treat it like a novel in progress—even though nothing progresses. My 2022 New Year’s resolutions are still sitting there in 2025, un-resoluted. There are vintage wishlists, outlines of literary masterpieces that never made it past a bullet point, and a single word in all caps on its own line:
REVENGE.
(What’s the plan? Unclear. But I support her.)
Maybe that’s the plot twist: The Notes App is the novel.
Not linear. Not proofread. Not edited for clarity or mental stability. Just a mess with a timestamp. Each note, a tiny portal into a mood, a meltdown, a midnight idea that made perfect sense at 3:47 AM—but reads like a cry for help by daylight.
Some deserve to be anonymously posted on Reddit under “Things I Said While Delirious, Hungry, or in Love (Possibly All Three).”
Others? So vulnerable they could be sold as limited-edition poetry chapbooks titled: Soft Girl Suffering: An Archive.
And then, the randoms that sneak in like:
“Stop trying to soft-launch people who wouldn’t even hard-launch you.”
I’m not sure if it’s wisdom, sarcasm, or a breakdown in cursive—but it’s canon now.
Or this one: “You are the plot twist. Not the background emotional support character.”
(I needed that one.)
So maybe I’m not writing a novel the old-fashioned way. But I’m chronicling a life. One feral, slightly poetic, deeply unserious note at a time.
Maybe no one will ever read it (I pray so). Or maybe that’s the point.
Maybe years from now, I’ll look back and realize I wasn’t just venting—I was documenting the quiet moments no one claps for. The in-betweens. The half-healed thoughts. The little epiphanies that didn’t make it to Instagram, but mattered anyway. A soft archive of becoming—stitched together with unfinished sentences, silent confessions, and the kind of honesty that only exists when no one’s watching.
Anyway.
Chapter 36: I did my best, spiraled dramatically, laughed mid-cry and took a 4-hour nap that solved nothing.
Not all heroes wear capes. Some just quietly lose it and call it self-care.
Stay tuned for Chapter 37: How to Pretend You Have It Together (Spoiler: You Don’t).
