In memory of my journals

Since I was a kid, I’ve thought of “journal” as more of a verb than a noun. Some kids played handball, some skipped rope, some chased boys; I journaled. It was serious business, the kind of serious business that compelled me to ask my parents for a special birthday gift — a fireproof safe to house the notebooks I’d filled since elementary school. They got me two, because they love me so much (or because they were accepting of my insanity at a very early age). The rationale behind the safes was that 1) my insights on those pages were brilliant and should be protected; and 2) I would want to revisit that brilliance throughout my life. The truth is that I have never cracked open an old journal , or opened an old computer file – I went digital with my journaling in the last decade to save trees, space, and money spent on fireproof safes. I still keep the keys to my fireproof safes, but I don’t presume I’ll ever use them. This tells me that what truly mattered to me wasn’t the staying power of the insights, but the writing itself.

Journaling gave me a way of transferring nagging thoughts, anxieties and worries from my mind to paper (or screen). Those thoughts, anxieties and worries seemed more manageable at that arm’s length. Plus, with journaling, the mundane seemed meaningful; everyday people seemed intricate and detailed. I have to think this helped me hone some dramatic flair. If you’re wondering why I use the past tense when discussing my beloved journaling, it’s because I don’t do it anymore.

I stopped journaling a few years ago. It was a cold turkey kind of endeavor. It wasn’t hard though, like quitting an addiction. One day, I was just done. With journaling, I’d started to feel too “in my head”  instead of in the moment. I was mulling over things too long, giving too much importance to passing feelings that were just that — passing.

It’s not that I think writing turned nefarious for me. You should see my list-making capabilities. It’s just that I’ve come to realize I don’t need a secret place for my thoughts. I can just share them, openly. The quirks I thought were dreadful, the memories I thought were shaming, the opinions and beliefs and innermost fears I thought were embarrassing… just aren’t. I don’t need to keep anything locked away in a safe anymore. I’m pretty much an open book now.

I’ve started to wonder if that’s why I’m not writing fiction these days. In the past, I’ve communicated through short stories. I’ve sorted through issues and worked out who I was with fiction. Lately, I communicate through conversation. I don’t have many issues to sort through. And, I’ve worked out who I am. Mostly.

Is that all writing has been for me? Therapy, in a way? Do I just not need it anymore (or right now)? Do all writers feel this way, but some keep at it, persistent and disciplined and committed to making their therapy a career? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll write again one day. Until then, I’m just happy to be happy.