Last week I finished another journal. I pulled down my box of journals from my bedroom closet and was surprised at how heavy it was. As I looked through it I was struck by how many words I had written, how many thoughts and ideas I had captured on paper over the years. Each time period is identified by the style of journal. Spiral notebooks for my teenage years, covered in bright colours or patterns and Moleskines for the adult years. 27 in total.
Journaling has been a way for me to write out my thoughts and to privately capture what spills out of my insides. As an extrovert, it has become a way for me to process ideas, thoughts and emotions before they’re ready for public exposure. I was first inspired to keep a journal after my mom gave me one of hers as a young girl. I loved the idea that I was reading my mom’s thoughts from when she was a teenager, learning from lessons she had forgotten she had recorded. I wanted to do the same.
Sometimes I go back and read what I wrote and am surprised. I learned that already, cause I feel like I’m still learning that! I wrote that? Because it’s not half bad! It’s also encouraging to see how far I’ve come.
This summer I started one morning reflecting on how great it is that every day is new, waiting for me to write a new story. Every day is a fresh page. I don’t have to continue from the previous day, I can start all over again if I want to whether it’s in act or attitude.
Writing helps me have perspective, it helps me process and it helps me progress.
A few summers ago I was working from home full-time for the first time since I had moved to Montreal eight months before. It was enjoyed walking around Atwater Market at lunch and working from coffee shops in Little Burgundy in Montreal where I lived. The summer prior I had written my second novel (neither novels were any good) and the ten months after that I was plagued by the desire I had to keep writing and the longing I felt to become good at it. I wanted to be published and I wanted it badly.
