Creative Nonfiction Essay II

To Keep A Journal

jour·nal (jûrnl) n.
an account of day-to-day events; a record of experiences, ideas, or reflections kept regularly for private use; also known as a diary
The word diary comes from the Latin diarium ("daily allowance," from dies "day," more often in the plural form diaria). The word journal comes from the same root (diurnus "of the day") through Old French jurnal (modern French for day is jour).

I got my first journal when I was in the fifth grade. It was a diary, the holy grail of all little girl diaries – pink and sparkly, hard backed, complete with a silver lock and key. With one hiding place for the diary (so sneakily under my pillow, just like DJ Tanner on Full House) and a separate one for the key (in my tin money box), I felt free to share with my diary all of the most important facets of my life (namely, when Alison Bunn decided to steal my boyfriend Matt Allen while we were in the library at school, or how I had the best birthday party when my mom gave me my first razor to start shaving my legs.) I was confident in the fact that my sisters would never find it, and if they did, they would not be able to get beyond the powerful lock, so I could say whatever I wanted about them! What freedom and power I had! And what a good friend I had in my secret diary.

With each entry, I would begin Dear Diary and would end Talk to you later! –Sam, occasionally spotted with a post-script Thanks for listening! or even a I just don’t know what I’d do without you! I wish I were kidding. It was as if I hoped that my diary would be my best friend and perhaps, if I was devoted enough, would write back to me when I wasn’t looking just like Ghostwriter, giving me advice about how to survive the troubles of being a chubby ten-year-old girl interested in boys and striving to achieve popularity. In a dusty cardboard box at the bottom of my closet at my parents’ home, you can find this first diary and all of the horribly embarrassing anecdotes written in careful, pre-teen girl cursive (extra curlies on all the letters with long appendages.)

Now that I look back on it, there were quite a few token Sam at ten years old entries that I remember in that beloved diary. Aside from boyfriend-stealing Ali Bunn and my leg-hair-less birthday (when I stated, and I quote, “It was the best birthday EVER! Thanks diary”), these light pink pages were also home to my very first song that I wrote with my best friend Katie. Inspired by my creative muses, the Spice Girls, I decided that Katie and I should form a ‘tween girl duo and call ourselves, quite originally, Sugar and Spice. Katie didn’t have much to say in the matter, probably because I never let her. She just sat on the end of my twin bed as I paced around on the brown shag carpet, trying to find a word that rhymed with “mall” and could incorporate how friends are friends forever and how no boy could ever break that bond. I decided she should be “Sugar” since she was demure and soft-spoken. And since I was so much more of a deviant than her, what with my slightly narcissistic church attendance and love for playing Barbies, I would be “Spice” and finally live out my dream of being a “bad girl”, just like Scary Spice. What came out of this endeavor were songs that included both singing and rapping. As proof, what follows is a word-for-word excerpt of a rap, or “rhyme” if you will, that I wrote for my other half, “Sugar”: My name is Sugar and I’m quite the lady / I’m a well-mannered girl just like Jan Brady. I thought for sure that it would be a matter of weeks before someone discovered Sugar and Spice, with our original lyrics and happy-go-lucky content, and would make us the next teen pop wonder. Yes, I, Samantha “epitome of Caucasian” Crowder, at ten years old and weighing a whopping twenty more pounds then than I do now, wrote out Sugar and Spice’s songs, including raps, in my very first pink lock-laden diary.

History thanks Samuel Pepys (whose private diary he kept from 1660–1669 was later published and deemed one of the most important primary sources for the English Restoration period) for beginning the diary trend for the world . I personally owe it to my favorite Nickelodeon character, Doug Funnie, for my start on this journey of what would become journal keeping. He seemed so devoted to his hobby and was a proud keeper of a journal (not to be confused with the much-too-effeminate term “diary”, though this was the term I preferred), discussing his feelings for Patty Mayonnaise and his love for his favorite band THE BEETS. He even wrote stories about his alter ego, Quail-Man. As a kid, there was a certain allure and possibility in the idea of keeping a journal. It served as an all-listening ear, a friend even, who you could tell anything whenever you wanted; you could tell whatever secrets, be however honest, or even make stories up completely.

About halfway through its pages, I gave up my first diary. I remember reading back over my earlier entries and thinking that I sounded just so silly and feeling like I didn’t have anything good or smart or impressive to say. I got tired of the pressure of having to write in it every day, and if I couldn’t utilize the diary for what it was made for – writing every day – I should just give up. Not only that, but I lost my key and decided the best remedy would be to rip the lock straight off the book in order to get back in. There was no more mystery or protection from sneaky older sisters. So I shoved it into a drawer at my desk, covering it with other loose papers and hoping no one would find it. This was the start of a long habit of starting a journal and not finishing it.

As a disclaimer, I will be the first to admit that I am no expert at keeping a journal. But I am taking the stance of eleven years of experience in attempting to keep one. We kind of hand a love/hate relationship, this ambiguous process of keeping a notebook (or diary or journal or what have you) and I. By nature, I am a certifiable commitment-phobe, and on too many occasions have drudgingly taken my pen and journal in hand to at least record something about the day, solely out of this horrible feeling of obligation. Brush teeth, wash face, journal. Why? Why do I journal? Why do people journal? Today, even with my collection of completed (and not-so-completed) journals lined neatly upright, back cover to front cover, on display in my bookcase, I continue to appease this feeling of obligation to my journals, knowing that there is a reason for keeping them.

Currently, I have three journals that are in progress, each one with a different purpose, but similar looming feelings of obligation towards them to keep writing until I hit the back cover. First, there is the small, paperback journal, made with an array of graph paper, lined paper, and eclectic graphics of dandelions and various other plants printed in light pinks, purples, blues, and grays. It has housed everything from poetry to extensive to-do lists to three weeks worth of recording everything I ate each day for each meal in attempt to be calorie-conscious. Then there is the newest addition to the family, my black Moleskine reporter-style notebook that has taken on a more business role. In its brand new off-white and crisply lined pages are brainstorms about internships, lists of web addresses, and contact information of editors I intend to, but probably never will, contact about possible idyllic careers traveling and writing for NC Signature or Southern Weddings Magazine. Last, there is the ever faithful, cloth-bound, handmade paper journal given to me by my sister for Christmas of 2006. It has been in use just over a year now, and has become less of a journal and more of a scrapbook overflowing with stick-glued ticket stubs, brochure cutouts and flyers. It has become this mainly because I cannot find the time nor the will to just sit down and really write about the things that are going on in my life, and what I think about it all.
Yet I know I must continue to record things, however trivial. Why? Why record things at all? After eleven years and more apparent journal “failures” than journal “successes”, why do I still, however infrequently, keep a journal (or three)? I do have a feeling of obligation toward keeping a journal, I am just not entirely sure what type of obligation it is. Is it because I consider myself a writer? Is it because I think I want to be a published author someday, however near or far that day is? Is it because I cannot function without making written lists, whether it’s a grocery list reminding me to get cotton balls or an extensive list of every place I want to travel to in the world? Why do people even keep journals on a regular basis? What sparks people to start? What makes them stop?

Nine completed journals down the road, I’ve managed to complete four journals from front cover to back cover, while the others remain half-filled or somewhere in between half and full. Although I am not a journal-keeping connoisseur and have a long way to go before anything I write in these journals could be considered even somewhat worthy of publishing, I have learned a few things about how to keep a journal and why you would even want to. I’ve learned how to better combat my weaknesses and inhibitions as a writer. After countless tries and fails, a few successes, and a decade of habitual practicing under my belt, these are a few of my best thoughts, tips, and reminders for my fellow journal-keeper.

The Big Picture - A Little Bit of History

Part of my nature is to question the big picture of things. When I ask myself these big questions about journaling, it inevitably leads me to wonder about journaling in humanity as a whole, and my place in its history. When did it start? Why? What sparked those people to start? Has it changed? I would have thought that the beginning of journal writing as a whole came hand-in-hand with the origin of the written word, but after a bit of research I found that the first record of journal writing occurred much later in history. The earliest recorded journals were found in the Middle East and East Asia during the first century, including mostly poems and images (as opposed to words, interestingly enough) to describe both daily events and traveling experiences . Journaling in Western history, however, did not really take off until the fourteenth century during the Renaissance, mainly as a result of the growing importance of the idea of the “self” . I found that to be such a fascinating fact, if not the fact, about journaling. Universally, journaling is a product of reflecting on the self. Even if what is recorded has intrinsically nothing to do with the writer, it reflects the writer and their environment.

And as I continued to research through significant sources of journaling throughout world history, I also noted the sheer breadth of the spectrum of what has constituted as “journaling” across time and across cultures. From drawings and poetry describing dreams in tenth century Japan to more factual logs of travel expeditions in the West centuries later, journaling has never been just one thing. The only common facet of journaling is the self, the you, the writer. However you process the world around you -be it through pictures, poetry, recollections or lists, stuff that makes sense and stuff that doesn’t, stuff you say or stuff someone else said - it describes just as much about you as it does anything else. Journaling is human history, and I am a part of that, even in my most mundane renderings about how I hate waking up early for Spanish class, or how I wish it would be possible to rent out a whole amusement park for my birthday so no one would have to wait in lines for rides or funnel cakes. I am a part of that history, even in my shortcomings as a writer and journal-keeper all together.

One Line, Two Line, Red Line, Blue Line.

After my first diary failure, it didn’t take too long for me to pick out another book of blank pages at the bookstore while my mom sat and read gossip magazines. This time around, my journal of choice was spiral-bound with all black pages and a silver gel pen. It had all types of questions, prompts, and idea-starters on each page for me to fill out. It had boxes to draw yourself in, then to draw yourself backwards in, then upside down, then as an animal. It was some manufacturers way of exploiting the gel pen phenomenon of 1998 and hooking pop-culture obsessed children like myself into buying their product for $9.99, I’m sure. But I loved that journal.

For a solid two weeks straight (as is the life-span of most unnecessary-deemed-absolutely-necessary products for ‘tweens), I carried around my gel-pen journal, excitedly answering its ready-made questions about what kind of food I’d like to eat on the moon, and who my top three favorite bands were (Spice Girls, *NSYNC, and No Doubt, of course). Following their prompting, I would draw pictures of my house in Raleigh and my best friend Katie and what I would look like in ten years (married with a child and a career as a singer). I wrote in it while riding in the passenger seat of my mom’s white mini-van. I wrote in it during Mrs. Quill’s 4th period social studies class that I despised. I wrote in it in my bedroom before bed, enjoying all the seemingly interesting things about me and my life, without having to say it in so many words. This journal helped me to see that journaling doesn’t have to be a set form of writing what you did that day and then discussing your thoughts about the day. It’s not even about writing every day or “writing” at all. It taught me, in some way, that journaling is just a way to capture you, at that moment, however it comes out.

Journal outside the box. Or journal inside the box, if it’s what you prefer. Whether it’s a doodle of the back of the person’s head in front of you or one singular line from a song you heard playing while shopping in Wal*Mart, I have learned that anything goes. Don’t hold yourself up to a standard of what your writing should look like or be about. In my opinion, it doesn’t even matter if what you write or draw was inspired by anything. Even if it is a product of sheer boredom and a blank page, write it, draw it, color it, smudge it, cut it, paste it. It still constitutes as journaling, because those things, however meaningless they could be to you, still say something about you, the writer.

That one doodle of a tree in the lower left-hand corner of the page may mean nothing to you. But you may look back months later and remember that you drew it in your Biology class because you could not possibly listen to the professor drone on anymore. And then you recall you could not wait to get out of your blue jeans and into sweatpants and watch reruns of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman on TV. Then you might remember that it was a Monday and that’s the day you talked to your mom on the phone about your financial problems and ended up arguing and suddenly, that stupid, pencil-doodled tree represents you. It comes to life and has a story just in your rendering of it. So whatever it is, a line from a poem you like or something you heard someone say in passing, a picture you cut out from a magazine or a more conventional list of things you did that day, whether it’s in pen, colored pencil, or is the product of scissors and glue, anything goes.


Don’t Look Back Just Yet

This has been one of my greatest challenges in journal writing. I will open up my journal, stare at the intimidating blank page, consider what would be the best and most articulate thing to write, and then flip back a few pages and start reading what I had written in the pages a few weeks prior. Upon reading it, my thoughts will generally include “Sam, you’re so dumb”, or “you’re trying too hard” or “you’ve got a long way to go before you’re any kind of decent writer”. Occasionally, I will think “Oh, you’re getting somewhere!” or “What did I do here that made this so effective and how can I bottle that up and tap into it whenever I want to write so I can always write well?”

The problem here is that I don’t just let myself write. Because I want the words to represent precisely what I mean and precisely who I am, I have a hard time just letting it go, whether it comes out right or comes out as the crappiest piece of writing I’ve ever done. I become heavied down by the narrative voice of pages before, and inevitably end up critiquing the way I chose to put my life and thoughts into words. As a writer, I am absolutely my own worst critic, and on too many occasions have let that characteristic thwart me from just writing something, which is the worst crime of journal writing! Even if it’s the worst piece of writing you have ever written, write something.

There will be something good in that writing, some detail about your life that you will be sparked to remember just as you experienced it then. I have let too many details of my life slip through the cracks, unidentified and unpreserved, because I let the pages before me dictate how I feel about myself as a writer. In order to get a piece of writing you are proud of, you must trudge through all the muddiness and extra baggage of what Anne Lamott has deemed the Shitty First Draft. A journal, I think, is just a collection of shitty first drafts, and if you do not write anything, you will not have any diamonds of brilliant writing to go back and discover. So sit down and hash it out, and do not look back at pages you’ve written just yet. Just let yourself write, on that page only, in whatever way you want. There is no wrong unless you do not write.


The Pages Do Not Have Eyes

The scenario here is similar to premature looking back and critiquing the pages you’ve written, but has a different enough complex involved that I thought it could use its own brief section. Along with letting my previous narrative voices and my inner critic steer me away from journaling freely, I also let the thought of who could possibly read my journals change the way I write and the way I choose to preserve my experiences, my thoughts, and therefore, my self. Yes, someone other than myself could, and probably eventually will, read some of what I have written in thousands of pages of journals, but that should absolutely not change how I choose to write and what parts of my life I choose to write about.

In a childish sort of way, while I am writing in the pages of my journal, I will think, “What if I lose my journal and a publisher finds it?” and there, in the middle of my sentence, my voice changes from casual Sam to outlandish literary hoopla that I subconsciously think would impress someone of importance if they happened to read my journal. Or I will imagine, in a very Christmas Story sort of way, that I might get in a car accident and suffer a premature death, and then my mother and father will read through the pages of my journal, crying over their loss and reading the beautiful words of their lost daughter, when they come across explicit details I decided to write about them and their shortcomings as parents or about how I made out with some guy who, turns out, was a giant pot head and un-did my bra hook without me even knowing. And suddenly I glaze over writing about the nooks and crannies of my ever so human, twenty-one-year-old college female life. Some of the stuff you have to say as a writer (well, most of it, as I am coming to realize) will not be pretty and it will not be eloquent. It will not be the stuff found in pages of a published novel and it will not necessary be things you are proud of. But, if all goes well, it will be honest and true to you only. Do not let the “eyes” of the page change who you write yourself to be.


Journals Always Take You Back

I think anyone who has attempted to keep a journal has experienced the cease and desist complex. You buy a new journal, excited about writing in its fresh, crisp pages every day. For a week and a half, you write all about what you did that day and who you saw and brilliant thoughts you have about life and politics and God. And then you stop. A few days go by and you look back and think, “okay, I will try this again”. The writing doesn’t come, and if it does, it seems forced and stiff and is not enjoyable in the least. Another few days go by, and you look back and read and think “well that was dumb” and your journaling days are over until you’re older, wiser, and better at keeping up with something every day.

The wonderful thing about journals is that they always take you back. They are always forgiving and do not care one bit if you haven’t written in their pages for a week or a month or a year. Keep writing, and do not feel as though you have to account for lost time. You don’t. In a way, the empty pages say just as much about you as the written ones do. If you have to go out and buy a new journal to spark some momentum again, do it. That other journal that you left behind does not mind one bit, and though it may seem like a huge journal fail, it is not. It encapsulates something about you, and is an accurate snapshot of you at that moment in your life. Again, if you write it, it’s right.


So What’s The Point?

For a long time, and still even, I have had two distinct scenarios in my head that fuel my journaling. One is of my grandchildren and great-grandchildren exploring in a dusty attic decades from now. They stumble upon a box of books – old Bibles, Lewis, Salinger, Longfellow, not nearly enough Shakespeare or other “classics”, and upon sifting through, they will see books with unmarked bindings. They will casually flip open the pages to skim and see what these books are. They will find my handwriting filling the pages, mementos from things in my life when I was their age, and would find out more about me in just one minute’s worth of reading than they could ever know from any stories their parents could tell about me. There, in my children and grandchildren’s hands, is an eyewitness account to my life according to me. Anything they could want to know about me, or American life during the “turn of the millennium”, they can find out through what I write and how I write. In a lot of ways, though I try not to let the thought of their eyes reading the pages change the way I write, I write for them. I write for them to have some family history to go back to. I write for them to know all of who I was, in my own words.

And then I picture, in the least apocalyptic way possible, that long after our civilization is gone, my accounts of my life might be able to provide a primary source of history. Yes, throughout history, journaling has changed. We have web logs and mini-web logs, we have a million different venues of writing, and we still have little books of blank paper. But at the very core, I think journaling is for people to remember. People begin to journal because they have something they want to keep untouched, something that they do not want to forget. And in that way, journaling is a form of immortalization, taking a snapshot of that moment, a snapshot of you, and keeping it immortal on the page. You and the things you have written come to life again, in a way, in the recollection. Yes, I am a part of that history, even in my shortcomings as a writer and journal-keeper all together. That is one of the most beautiful things about keeping a journal, I think. To keep a journal is to keep yourself, and you can’t do that wrong unless you don’t do it at all.