As of tonight, I’ve logged eight full pages in my large moleskin journal with nearly two weeks worth of entries. Each entry is more extensive and honest than the previous. The content waffles from mundane accounts of the day’s activities, to my own meditations on the various issues that arise in my life. My own little black book of ramblings.
It started as part of my New Year’s resolution. I wanted divulge my own thoughts onto the written page. I’ve always tried to keep a consistent journal, but have always failed to keep one for longer than a week.
Recently, I began to miss the reflective journeys I’d take on the page; I miss the cathartic addiction to journal writing.
Eerily enough, a strange coincidence happened recently that seems to catalyze my journaling. For a class I’m taking on creative nonfiction, we’re reading Susan Neville’s Iconography. It’s a collection of her journal writings that she kept each day of Lent. In each entry she grapples with her depression, her spirituality, and her struggle as a writer. Her blunt honesty and ruthless self-reflection ring strange parallels in my own life. What’s strange is that I am fated to read this book shortly after I began my own journey in journaling. The coincidence is unsettling, yet strangely comfortable.
In either case, I plan to fill as many pages as possible. Maybe I might share a few with you.
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