Monday 20 – Tuesday 21 May 2013
As I mentioned some time ago in a previous post, I’m a sucker for stationery. And part of my stationery-thing is that I buy notebooks and journals – lots of them. It’s not necessarily that I use them; I just buy ‘em, and kinda collect ‘em. Not boring ones. No, I buy fancy schmancy ones. And every now and then, I might get it into my head that I should use one. And that, Regular Readers, happened the other day.
Yep, decided that I should whip one of those fancy schmancy journals out and do a bit of jotting in it. So I laid my hands on the nice Christian Lacroix journal, all black and white and grey, textured number, stuck a few photos in it, and thought to myself: Hell yeah, I’ll do a bit of journal writing again.
And therein lies my problem.
Y’see, I’ve always kinda sucked at journal writing. Oh, don’t get me wrong: I can write prolifically in journals. The thing is, it’s not necessarily any good. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that my journal writing is absolutely shite. Yeah, that covers it.
The first wall I hit in journal jottings is the ‘what the hell am I supposed to write about?’ one. I mean really, what the hell am I supposed to write about? I can almost hear some of you yelling out that the point of journal writing is to write about our life. Ummmm, have you seen my life? It’s not like it’s interesting in any way, shape or form. If I actually wrote about my daily experience, I’d bore the pants off of myself before I could write much. Really, I would. And there’s no point writing about any secrety things I might have because a) that would defeat the purpose of having secrets, b) I don’t really have any secrets anyway, and c) if I did, there’s no way I’d write them down in a journal because I’ve seen the movies – you write your secrets in your secrety journal, someone finds it and BAM, bitches! There goes your life and in walks Mr. Blackmail. Things never turn out well for those who journal their secrets.
There was this one time at uni that I consistently and prolifically wrote in a journal. In all fairness though, I had some “interesting friends” at uni, and that led to interesting interactions, and by “interesting” I mean, y’know, it was uni and not everyone was normal, regular, logical, sensible, mature, serious about being at uni. Since then, though, I have attempted journal writing a number of times and it’s always fallen flat for me. I can honestly put my hand up and say that I am beyond terrible at journal writing. I’ll admit that. And self-reflection is not something that I’ve ever felt the desire to write. I do self-reflection quite well without having to write and re-read it. My head is full of self-reflection . . . and criticism . . . and self-doubt . . . and thoughts. I’m always churning over stuff in my head, and unlike many other people, writing that stuff down doesn’t help me get it out, it simply serves to make me think about it more. Besides, who needs a journal for therapy self-reflection when you have the right friends who aren’t those bat shit crazy ones from uni?
So, what to do with all of those fancy journals and notebooks that I’ve bought? And that Christian Lacroix one that I stuck some photos in? Guess I’ll keep moving it around my writing desk until I can find something suitable to use it for.
Journal writing: a great idea? Ummmm . . . not one of my best, no.