I considered walking out the front door forever when I spotted a white notebook on my desk, the kind stenographers use. I picked it up and started writing. I wrote about how my boss was indifferent, how advertising was not how I pictured it, how I wanted to escape and be out in the world. I wrote about how I didn’t know what to do with my life, but I didn’t want to spend it in a box. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote and when I finished I had filled six pages, both sides. Going back to work, I felt cleaner, better, even saner.
That was thirteen years ago. I just started my forty-second book. If I’d known the journey I was setting off by picking up that notebook, I would’ve paid more attention, lit a candle, chanted Tibetan poetry, anything to signify a new passage had begun. A passage that would help me become a writer, set goals, clarify my thinking, even at times, help me stay healthy.
Now at this point, I have to state most of my journal's pretty boring. I compare its contents to what they say being a cop is like. Most of its mundane, parts can be exciting and others are downright scary. But that’s not the point. I’ve had people say, “I can’t keep a journal. My life’s too dull.” Yet what makes most of us interesting is not what happens to us outside but inside. Everyone has dreams, hopes, and fears. These are what make us unique, not necessarily the job we have or the role we play. And getting in touch with that inner person is what journals are about.
For most of us, getting started is the hard part. We’re self-conscious. We’re sure every thought must be profound or witty or insightful. We must entertain “them,” those people snickering over our shoulder. We’re sure there is a right way of doing this and we’re not doing it. I’ve had friends tell me how they write or when and ask if that’s correct. I answer that’s like asking me how they should brush their teeth.
Gradually after a few weeks of writing in my first journal, “they” started to fade away. My notebook became a friend I would share my day with, whether picking out new kitchen curtains or figuring out what to do with the next decade. No subject was too big or too small.
At first I thought I’d keep my journal until I left my job. After all, my real subject was escaping corporate life. That seemed a nice place to say goodbye. But a strange thing happened. After I got out of the corporate world and into a smaller agency, life went on. New problems replaced old ones, new ambitions and fantasies cropped up as soon as old ones were fulfilled. Okay, I thought, once I become a mom, surely my need to keep a journal will end. I’ll be so busy and what a great place to finish.
As luck would have it, I became pregnant over the next year and found that once again I was mistaken. Putting my newborn son to bed one night, I realized there was much more to say. I wanted to write about how it felt to feed him late at night with the wind blowing through the trees and how sometimes I felt overwhelmed and scared. I wanted to write about my experience in the hospital and how I made it through three scary days before the baby was born, and proved to myself I was stronger than I thought I could be. I couldn’t say goodbye to these notebooks as surely as I couldn’t say goodbye to an old friend. We were in this life together.
Photographer Peter Beard says that keeping a journal for him “thickens life.” I think what he means is it helps you have a bird’s eye view of your days rather than seeing life as a series of disconnected events. Your life becomes an interesting story. You become your own central character in this continuing saga. And the nice thing is that you can go back and read over parts, almost reliving them. And that’s when you realize how much you’ve changed and sometimes grown.
Some people believe that writing things down helps manifest them quicker. The repetitive, physical act of words on paper works with the subconscious to bring things about. I believe there's something to that. There are many times I’ve poured out my hopes into my journal where I can look back and say, almost without exception, I’ve gotten what I wanted. It may have come at a price or after lots of struggle, but it did come. Not that keeping a journal will make all wishes come true, but it’s a powerful ally for uniting the imaginative with the practical act of writing.
People ask if I’m afraid others will read my journals. And I have to say yes, after fourteen years, there are secrets and private moments and things that are embarrassing. Certainly things I wouldn’t want my children to read or know about. And yes, I’ve considered burning the whole lot a couple of times. But every time I come close to lighting that fire, I chicken out. That’s my life in those pages and who’s to guarantee I won’t pick up another notebook and start again? The best solution I know is to write messy enough so I can reread them but no one else can. I also know people who buy lockboxes.
And something else holds me back. Sometimes I picture myself as a very old woman, sitting in a rocking chair, turning the pages with gnarled fingers. I’ll relive that first corporate job, the times in my marriage, becoming a mom, maybe a grandmother, the relationships and people who have come and gone, and all the stuff left to do. The story hasn’t ended. Why throw out the book?
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