Um, Journals

Journals

If we don’t count the paperback teddy bear journal I bought in the third grade where my entries were, borderline incoherent sentences written in bulbous cursive then abandoned after a couple entries, I started keeping a journal in 1993. I can’t remember why I did. Just that I had gotten a journal as a birthday gift…from whom I couldn’t tell you. One of those thin hardcover blank books with lines, and an oil painting of a girl holding a cat on the cover…the kinds of blank books that were popular before the stores took notice of the market and cranked out wider varieties of blank books with lots more expensive options.

This summer I dug all of my journals out of my trunk (another blog entry on it later) and stacked them up on the dining room table. A coworker had mentioned that her daughter had begun her first journal so I wanted to see what they looked like all together.

I needed a couple journals a year during my junior and senior years of high school (which sounds just about right) but since have averaged about one a year. My entries these days are further apart but longer.

My journals are not going to help any aliens in the future decipher what it was like to be living in this time period, in this area. It’s the most mundane of things. The journals are not for an audience of hypothetical great grand children, or for a university library after I’ve won the Nobel in literature. It’s not to help me think things through either…usually when I am stressed or working on a problem, I wait until it’s resolved before I commit it to paper.

As I look at the journals I can see how my tastes have changed over the years. I started out using only journals given as gifts…getting 3 or 4 more after the first gifted journal from various relatives like clockwork around the holidays. The gifts weren’t given with the knowledge that I’d actually use them, and I find that interesting that several friends and family thought of a journal as a gift for a teenaged girl.

After a while I’d buy them, and went through a spiral bound phase. But I always waited to buy one until I was near the end of the current one. This worked well enough until graduate school when I got to the end and couldn’t find anything I liked in the stores. I went to every book store in the city and had to settle. I’ve had a policy ever since to buy a journal I like on the spot, and now have enough squirreled away until…oh, 45. But it’s nice to finish one journal and browse my collection of them, weighing them in my hands, looking at the lines (although I do ones without lines too) deciding about the color. I like all of them, but I choose each one at the time based on my mood.

I wrote at my desk in high school, college, graduate school, and got away from that once I was in the real world. I started writing in bed before reading but lately have switched back to writing on my table in the guest room, where I do all my fiction writing.



Pens? Pencils? Some of my early ones were in pencil, some were done in with pens that had some significance to me, a gift, a souvenir from a trip, etc. I’ve done black, but mostly stick to shades of blue. Very often the color and feel of the journal from covers to paper will influence the choice of pen and color. I’m so obsessive that when my pilot precise v5 ran out, and I tried to make do with the uniball blue roller (that I’m using in one of my writing projects.) I had to break down after a couple of entries and buy some more pilots at the store. That’s how weird I am…in case the huge collection of blank books I’ve already bought wasn’t a tip off for you.

Pens and pencils will have to be another blog. Prepare to be riveted.

I don’t know why I do it, it may be the simple reason that when I’m not working on something, I can always write in my journal and the movement of pen against paper, the ordering of the daily life things and sometimes what I think about them, feels calming. Like tidying up the kitchen or crawling into clean sheets. Since all my old journals are in the trunk, I rarely back track through them—and didn’t even do that when I drug them out for this picture. Every now and then when I do, some entries make me grimace, not so much at the language of my recordings but the priorities of what I recorded and my thoughts on them. Some make me smile to myself or laugh out loud and others bring a flood of things I had forgotten.

As I write this blog, I picture something I’ve never imagined before, me an old woman, tottering around the house, or bed-ridden in a nursing home, surrounded not bylarge print word finds, or tabloid magazines, but three score of these journals, reading them slowly from the beginning to the end, a review of my life as I told it in the narrowest of lenses before moving onto my great perhaps.*

*Directly stolen from my Teen Read Week experience from John Green, the last words of Simon Rabelay and I'm sure I am not spelling Rabelay right but am too lazy to look it up.