I have kept a journal or diary off and on for over forty years. When I first started, I wrote at night right before going to bed, in a hardbound blankbook in ink. As I recall, what I wrote was mostly an account of my activities. Although I still have those notebooks, I have not looked at any of the entries since I first wrote them.
In the last dozen years, I have taken a different approach to journal-keeping. I write in the morning before dawn, in a wire-bound sketchbook, using a pencil. Although I sometimes summarize events of the previous day, usually I am trying to put into words what is on my mind, good and bad. I started this approach when I was having weekly sessions with a therapist. Talking with him was useful, and I wished I could see him more frequently. It occurred to me that while I was meeting with him once a week, I was seeing myself every day. I decided to start a journal again, but this time rather than using it to summarize events of my life, I used it to hold a written conversation with myself to understand better what I was thinking and why. I have continued since without a break and have filled a couple of dozen sketchbooks of 200 pages each, usually about 200 to 600 words a day.
Often I have no clear theme in mind when I take up notebook and pencil each morning. And the blank page extending before me occasionally feels like a tough hill to climb. Despite that, this ritual, this daily practice an important part of my day. Sometimes I write about my mood as it cycles between optimism and melancholy, between possibility and resignation. I write about my successes and failures, my worries and my hopes. Lately, I have been writing about my increasing awareness of where I am in life, about how to make the best use of the time I have left. Sure, everything I write is a rough draft, often awkwardly worded, larded with bad grammar and misspellings. At times, I see that my entries fall too easily into complaints, disappointments, and frustrations. Fortunately there are passages of optimism and soaring possibility, although those seem less frequent as the years pile up.
While I am self-conscious if my journals tend too much toward complaints, my morning ritual of writing is a way to give form to my thoughts, good or bad, so that I better understand them. Also, this habit is both stimulating and satisfying, and as I write, I almost always have insights which I note so that I can follow up on them later. The simple act of writing is also pleasing as evidence that I am able to put ideas into prose that is usually clear, particularly for a spontaneous, unedited draft. How satisfying it is to see and feel ideas flowing from my mind through my pencil and onto the page. The sensation of the pencil rubbing against the texture of the page as my ideas emerge into life is almost erotic. Further, the stack of filled notebooks is an accomplishment of which I am proud even if I am self-conscious about the contents.
Although this daily writing practice is important to me, I have little desire to read my words after they flow from my pencil. One reason is lack of interest—I try to live in the present, not the past, which is over and done and unchangeable. What I write each morning reflects how I feel at the time, and how I felt last week or last year doesn’t matter to me.
I do all sorts of writing other than in my journal, for example poems, correspondence, or the posts in this blog. That writing is more difficult for several reasons including acedia, distractions, and self-consciousness. Sometimes, I consider using my pre-dawn journal time for that writing. I always choose not to do so, though, because the conversations with myself are too important. They are how I maintain my purchase on life.
I am not sure what I would like to have happen to these notebooks after I die. In some ways, I hope my daughters or grandson will read them, although the record of my internal struggles to get through life might disappoint them. Maybe, however, the accounts would show them that I have done my best and might offer useful examples of paths for them to follow or avoid.
Anyone who knows you will know you love writing. As for sharing in the future, recording yourself reading your writing and saving into audio files will encourage friends and family to enjoy them.
I indeed love writing. Or, more accurately, I love having written (wink).
Thanks for your suggestion about recording myself reading my writing. That is a good idea. On a related note, thirteen years ago I recorded an interview I did with my mom in which I asked her about her life, particularly her childhood in rural Oklahoma. Since she died last October, I have looked at it several times, and I would like one or both of my daughters do a similar interview with me — something to look at after I am dead and to pass on to my grandson and other kin.
Thank you for sharing your techniques and changes over the years. I meditate eac morning in a similar way. Using my body breathing as you do your hand writing, thoughts flow. I get to see what’s really still of concern for me, what I think I should be doing, and just an array of random, coming from everywhere thoughts.and then as I realize I’m in thought and come back to awareness, I begin again. Sometimes the thoughts flow through the awareness and they just pass through. Perhaps you pau se with pencil in hand in awareness also.
I also have some of the same pondering about my life.
Bees keep me grounded.love Pam
Thanks for your comments. Your point about what is “really still of concern” resonates with me. I realize that at this point in my life, my interests are markedly changing. I, too, think about what I “should be doing” with the time I have left. I’m working on a piece about that.
Sometimes an elder’s writings make a great historical memoir.
I agree. I have no writings from my forebears other than a handful of letters from my parents and some my grandmother sent to my mom. Perhaps my offspring will be interested enough to at least read my writings.