Nick Diezel: Why I created a prison diary and how it became a book.
I never set out to write a book. When I was sentenced to 3½ years in prison, the last thing on my mind was producing anything creative. Survival comes first, everything else is just noise. But prison has a strange way of sharpening your senses. You start noticing the absurdity of things, the characters, the rhythms, the tiny moments that would never happen anywhere else. And because the days blur into each other, you cling to anything that helps you keep hold of yourself. For me, that started with a single line each night.
In the early days of my stretch, I’d lie on my bunk after lights out replaying the day in my head. Sometimes it was something funny someone said on the wing. Sometimes it was a ridiculous argument over nothing. Sometimes it was a moment of kindness that cut through the monotony. I realised that if I didn’t write these things down, they’d vanish. So I started scribbling one‑liners in a cheap notebook—just enough to jog my memory later on. It wasn’t “writing” in any serious sense.
Prison is Heavy
Those one‑liners became a ritual. A way of marking time. A way of reminding myself that even in a place like this, there were still stories worth noticing. And the more I wrote, the more I realised that humour was a lifeline. Prison is heavy, but it’s also bizarre, and sometimes the only way to survive the madness is to laugh at it. Those notes helped me do that.
As the months went on, something shifted. I started writing more than a line. I’d sit on the edge of the bed during association or after bang‑up and expand on the stories. I’d describe the characters properly— the unexpected friendships that formed between people who would never meet on the outside. I found myself wanting to capture the rhythm of the place, the way time stretched and snapped, the way small events became humourous.
Writing became a way of staying sane. It gave structure to days that had none. It gave me a voice when everything else was controlled. And it reminded me that I was still me—not just a number, not just another body behind a door. The diary wasn’t meant for anyone else. It was just a private record, a way of processing the experience.
What Prison is Actually Like
But as my stretch went on, I realised something else: the stories weren’t just helping me. They might help others understand what prison is actually like—not the TV version, not the sensational headlines, but the real, human, often ridiculous day‑to‑day reality. I didn’t want to write a misery memoir. I wanted to write something honest, something that showed the humour, the frustration, the characters, the boredom, the small victories. Something that captured the truth without preaching.
By the time I got out, I had stacks of notes—scraps of paper, half‑filled notebooks, loose pages with scribbles only I could decipher. Turning that chaos into a book was a whole different journey.
The first challenge was simply organising it. I spread everything out and realised I had the bones of something, but it needed shaping. Some stories were fully formed. Others were just a sentence that made no sense months later. I had to piece it all together like a puzzle, working out what belonged where, what needed expanding, and what needed cutting.
Never Mind the Bacon
Then came the editing. And more editing. And more after that. Writing in prison is raw and immediate. Turning it into a book meant stepping back and seeing the bigger picture. I rewrote sections, rearranged chapters, and tried to make sure the humour landed without losing the reality behind it. I wanted the book to feel like you were there with me—laughing, shaking your head, and sometimes just sitting in the silence.
I sent drafts to proof‑readers, got feedback, corrected mistakes. It was a long process, sometimes frustrating, sometimes exhausting, but always worth it. Every round of edits made the story clearer.
Eventually, Never Mind the Bacon emerged from that mess of notes and memories. What started as a coping mechanism became a way of telling a story that doesn’t often get told properly. A story about the humour that keeps people going. A story about the characters you meet in places you never expect.
I didn’t plan to write a diary, and I definitely didn’t plan to write a book. The diary helped me get through my stretch. The book helped me make sense of it afterwards. And hopefully it gives readers a glimpse into a world they’ve never seen.
(c) Nick Diezel
About Never Mind the Bacon:
Never Mind the Bacon is a riotous prison diary that proves even the darkest places can be lit up with humor.
From the absurdity of cafeteria “mystery bread” to the unspoken rules of shower etiquette, this diary captures the daily comedy of survival in a world where boredom breeds creativity. The author turns misadventures into laugh-out-loud stories, showing that sometimes the best way to endure confinement is to laugh at it.
Order your copy online here.
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