This is my journal entry from August 17, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Author in St. Petersburg — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I think I’ve finally found a rhythm for how I want to handle these diary dictations. When I speak off the top of my head, the raw transcripts are often loaded with filler words, redundant thoughts, and winding passages that stretch too long. At first, I simply had ChatGPT rewrite everything, smoothing it out while keeping every word intact. Yesterday I tried something different: I asked it to cut back the length by varying percentages. I experimented with as little as 20 percent and as much as 50.
What I discovered is that 20 to 25 percent seems to be the sweet spot. At that range, the writing keeps its substance while becoming more concise, faster to read, and far less repetitive. Once I crossed into the 40 percent cut, I could feel something essential had been stripped away. Too many words were gone, and with them, the depth I wanted to preserve. That experiment convinced me to go back and reprocess the diaries at about a 25 percent reduction. For shorter entries, like those that only run 5 minutes of dictation, no trimming is really needed. Yet when I dictate for 30 minutes or more in a single sitting, the text practically begs for refinement.
This new process has me more confident about the balance between dictation and editing. Speaking freely remains the easiest and most natural way for me to create, while ChatGPT transforms the rough material into something that feels polished, fluid, and consumable. Sometimes I actually prefer the edited version of my voice to the raw dictation, which is remarkable. Yesterday I spent hours experimenting with this method, and today I’m applying it again — not only to my diary but also to the letter I dictated to my in-laws.
That letter consumed 40 to 50 minutes of dictation. It follows the one I already wrote to my ex-wife’s sister, which sprawled into a wandering 22-page document. That letter carried the weight of 14 years with hardly any real communication despite how often we’ve seen each other. I also wrote a letter to my brother, which my ex-wife proofread and helped tighten into something much shorter. I don’t want her help on the one to her parents, though. The material is too personal, and she’s too close to it.
I hesitate at times, wondering if such a letter is even necessary. Then I realize her parents barely know me at all. They only ever see the superficial version of our lives. Maybe that works for some families — parents satisfied with glimpses of their adult children working, raising kids, staying afloat. Yet I crave something deeper. I want conversations that reach into the marrow of life: marriage, health, money, sex, the things that actually define us. When I was falling apart at my lowest points, I leaned on my parents, speaking openly and asking for help. That kind of honesty saved me, and I believe it kept my ex-wife and me from divorcing. Everyone who truly knows me — friends, family, even readers of these diaries — understands those struggles. Everyone except my in-laws.
That gap bothers me. I don’t want to sit at a dinner table with them and feel like a stranger. It’s disorienting to realize my massage therapist knows me better than my ex-wife’s parents do. I’ve probably spent a total of 6 hours with her across sessions, yet she knows about my sobriety, my struggles, and my life because we talk honestly. She touches me in the physical, professional way a massage allows, but there’s intimacy in that, a grounding human connection that goes deeper than weather updates or polite questions about the kids.
She remarked once that some people seem to live only on the surface, content to skim across the water without ever plunging beneath. That’s not me. I cannot stand the surface. I need the depths. I need to feel truly known, and I want to know others in return. That’s what these letters are about — an attempt to dive deeper with the people in my life who should matter most. If my ex-wife’s parents, her sister, or anyone else I reach out to has no interest in that kind of relationship, at least I will have made the effort.
The work I’m doing with these diaries also makes me want to know my own mother more. She has a 200,000-word draft of a book she’s been sitting on for years. That’s 2 or 3 books’ worth of material, yet it remains hidden. She showed me a chapter once, and she used to work on it with Dad before he passed, but for most of the last decade, it’s gathered dust. Excuses pile up — waiting until people die, lacking time, lacking energy — but I want that book. I want to read her life story as an Army officer, as my mother, as someone who has lived and carried struggles I barely understand. I want to be able to ask her questions after I read it, to deepen our bond in a way that only her own words can unlock.
It feels absurd that I devour books from strangers around the world while ignoring the treasure in my own family. I don’t want my in-laws to make the same mistake with me. I want them to know me, not the polished surface, but the whole human being underneath. If they decline, at least I will know I tried.
Looking back through my voice memos, I realized I’ve recorded over 2 hours of material since yesterday’s diary. That’s probably around 20,000 words. Even cutting 20 to 25 percent leaves an enormous amount of creative output. My throat feels stronger today, and I’m grateful for that. It seems the time I’ve invested in writing these books has helped channel that creative energy in a healthy way. I do wonder whether, once I begin massage school, I’ll still have enough time to keep up with this pace of writing.
This morning I had my first paid life coaching session with my life coach. I brought $400 in cash to cover 4 hours, spread across 3 sessions — one today and two more before I start school. My main focus with her was learning to appreciate the simple, satisfying moments in life instead of racing past them. She gave me an insight that struck home: joy deserves as much space as frustration. In tennis, for example, I often downplay the satisfaction of hitting a clean shot, brushing it off as routine, while letting my negative reactions linger far longer. She encouraged me to reverse that pattern by noticing and savoring the small victories — whether in tennis, marriage, sobriety, or fatherhood.
My life coach also pointed out that helping others appreciate what they are doing right can make it more natural for me to do the same for myself. She suggested I send a couple of messages right away. I left her office and sent my ex-wife a quick voice note and wrote to my mother, asking them what they thought I was doing well in life right now. That exercise opened a door to something deeper. My life coach guided me into reflecting on different versions of myself, and I unexpectedly connected with my kindergarten self.
That boy was wild, playful, always trying to have fun, until my dad sat me down one day and said, “Son, you can’t keep acting up in class. If you don’t behave, you won’t be allowed to stay in kindergarten.” The message landed hard. I wanted freedom from the house, so I complied. I started behaving, but along with that adjustment came the burden of perfectionism. Somewhere in me a belief formed: if I didn’t act perfectly, I’d lose everything — my freedom, my place, my acceptance. Even now, that feeling haunts me.
Writing these deeply personal letters to family members has stirred that same fear, as though I have to hold myself to a standard no one else does. Yet the truth is, I can write whatever I want, in line with my own values, without apology. I don’t need perfect grades or approval to justify sharing my truth. That realization moved me to tears during the session. My life coach reminded me that by helping others celebrate their small wins, I could practice letting go of the old pressure to be flawless.
When I came home, I immediately put that into practice with my daughter. I told her how much I appreciate her ability to turn her mood around quickly, going from upset to joyful and playful with the family. I reminded her how she often steps up for my son when he’s struggling, comforting him and lifting his spirits. I praised her for the way she gets ready for school now with ease, no longer fussing the way she used to at her old school. She grinned and acknowledged how much easier it has become. I shared similar encouragement with my son, giving both of them clear, loving feedback about what they’re doing right.
It reminded me of my tennis coach, who constantly affirms my progress: “Jerry, that was a beautiful shot. You’re getting so much better.” At times I brush off his compliments, almost with contempt, as if they’re obvious or unworthy of celebration. That reaction shows me how ingrained my resistance is to appreciating the positive. Yet I see now how important it is to notice those small moments, both in myself and in others.
Yesterday provided a sharp example of the alternative. I accidentally broke one of my daughter’s toys while playing with it, and she had a full breakdown. She cried, scolded me endlessly to replace it, and even carried her anger down the street to my ex-wife’s family. I reached my limit and fined her $5 for badgering me repeatedly after I had already apologized. Even after that, I felt lingering resentment until I reminded myself that forgiveness was the only way to let go. She was upset because her toy broke, and she lashed out. I needed to release the anger, forgive her, and move on — not for her sake but for mine. Later that evening we talked, reconnected, and ended up having a lovely night together.
Moments like that show me how easy it is to spiral into negativity if I don’t stay conscious. Forgiveness and gratitude pull me back toward balance. These small practices—whether noticing a good shot in tennis, appreciating my children’s growth, or giving myself permission to be imperfect—help me live with more joy and less pressure.
I’m grateful I still have another week to think about whether to enroll in massage school, because I know how much I love writing. I know how much I love content creation. Over the past 2 days, I’ve spent hours just writing, dictating, and editing, pouring myself into my books. I could happily spend entire days doing nothing but this. The feeling reminds me of how I once loved filming videos and live streaming. Creating content energizes me in a way that is hard to match.
Yet I can’t help but wonder if I will feel the same way about putting my hands on people and doing bodywork. What if I go to massage school and discover that I don’t enjoy it? I think about my friend who went through 2 years of physical therapy school only to realize he didn’t want to practice and went back to coding. He hadn’t experienced much physical therapy himself before committing to that path, which might explain the disconnect. I, on the other hand, have received hundreds of massages. I love them. That doesn’t guarantee I’ll love giving them, but it gives me a stronger foundation than he had.
Part of what excites me about massage is the potential to merge it with my identity as an author. I imagine someone reading one of my deeply personal books and then coming to me for an intimate, healing session where physical touch and conversation merge. That would be a high-level experience, unlike almost anything else. I think about how much people adore J.K. Rowling’s work—imagine if you could book a massage with her after reading Harry Potter. Wouldn’t that be life-changing? I imagine thousands of fans would pay serious money for that chance. I’m not comparing myself to Rowling, but the concept inspires me. My books could move people, and the chance to meet me in person, with that kind of physical and emotional connection, could take it to another level.
Of course, I don’t know yet whether I’ll be good at it or whether I’ll truly enjoy it, but I do know I have to try. The effort alone is worth making.
This morning I played tennis, and I’m thankful my energy has returned to full strength. For about a week I felt like I was running at 70 or 80 percent, which frustrated me. Yesterday I found myself irritable several times, and it dawned on me that irritability often signals my energy is back at 100 percent. When I’ve been operating with less, the sudden return to full strength can feel overwhelming, almost like having too much power to handle smoothly. Today, though, I felt strong and grateful.
I had an hour-long tennis lesson paired with another player. I told my coach that once massage school begins, I probably won’t be booking private lessons as often, though I might still join in group sessions when I can. Playing with another student helped me relax, because seeing him miss shots made me less critical of myself when I made mistakes. With the coach one-on-one, I often feel like I’m the only one messing up. Playing with someone else reminds me that everyone struggles. Even when I practice against players stronger than me, I still learn a lot, and I’m grateful for the guidance I receive.
My eating today has also been on point. Yesterday I ate just the right amounts—enough to feel nourished without getting bloated. Today I had a light salad with broccoli slaw and kept it balanced. Right now I feel hungry, which I take as a good sign, because constant fullness usually means I’ve been overeating. These small victories in food, exercise, and energy levels make me feel in the flow of life.
I realize as I dictate this entry, probably 15 to 20 minutes long, that once it’s written down, 20 or 30 percent of it could be cut to make the final version read smoother. Still, what matters most is that I feel full of gratitude and alive in this process.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.