So, any of you folk keep journals? Secret diary with a lock-and-key hidden under your mattress containing your darkest thoughts and wildest dreams. Or a computer file that you can hammer away at with any random thoughts that come to mind?
In my carefree youth – like when I was 58 – I used to scorn journals as a waste of time and writing energy. I mean, if I’m going to be the only subscriber and consumer, what’s the point? I’ve had people tell me that you must always be practicing your craft, and a journal is a ready medium to ensure you are always writing. To which I usually replied “I ALWAYS have things to write, so I don’t need a journal”. Indeed, on the rare occasions when I tried writing a journal, I found it an excuse to avoid doing real writing: risk-free scribbling which gives the feel of writing and thus avoids guilt.
Well, now I’m older, retired, and with a poorer memory, and some of the inherent objections to a journal are starting to fade. In fact, I started my present review back in 2020 (pandemic?), and it has increased regularly over the past 3-4 years until I’m making weekly (and sometimes daily) entries. My eldest daughter, Barbara, proposes and recommends the Rubber Duckie method of solving problems, talking to a rubber duck and by verbalizing the problems, you discover a solution. I’m finding that journals offer a similar benefit, though on a broader front.
I don’t really use my journal to experiment with writing innovations like style and voice – I use short and really short stories for that – but I do use it to track my problems and successes. It’s both encouraging and sobering to be in one mood and read back to a time when I was at the opposite extreme of the rollercoaster. Brings you back to reality right quick. Though the successes sometimes seem excessively optimistic, while the failures often look all to stark and real. And I call myself an optimist.
A journal has supplied a number of surprising advantages. It records the dates of certain events – both minor and major – that might otherwise get jumbled in that hodgepodge known as memory, and it can also record the frequency of certain occurrences. I once was shocked to realize I had suffered three separate attacks of sciatica in one year, something that encouraged me to seek treatment. It has also helped me recognize that I frequently get worn down by the demands of the holidays, so I was able to elude the self-imposed title of Closet Grinch.
Perhaps most importantly, journals offer you an opportunity to vent. Yes, it’s better to have a sympathetic ear to smile sadly and nod in understanding at the tribulations inflicted by a cruel world, but there are a limited number of living saints and they aren’t always readily available. Moreover, the old adage of least said, soonest mended also applies; if you say something too outlandish to your journal, you have the delete key readily at hand.
Looking back at my journals (I keep them by year), I get a wider perspective of me and my life. It’s sometimes like talking to a younger version of myself, a little window peeking in on my past. It’s also sobering. You can see some pettiness, some paranoia, and more than a few examples of plain stupidity. But the only way to improve is to start with an honest appraisal, and a journal is a written mirror reflecting who you were and are. In so many ways, I wish I had started decades earlier.
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