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phoenixI’ve been finding it hard to write because I’m typically convinced that my journal entries just aren’t interesting. And interesting is one of those things I think I’ve a duty to be, even if it’s often more an aim than something I accomplish. So, I thought, why don’t I read back through my journal?
I had a lot of objections! I’m always scared to read my own writing. It’s reasonable and intelligent and true at the very moments when I’m putting it down, but get a few moments beyond that and it’s become some representation of Why Me Doing Things Is Bad and I can’t look, I just have to get it out there because once I write an entry, I want to post it and get confirmation of my existence. Comments? Woot, I exist! Interesting comments? Woot, my friends exist!
But it’s not exactly reasonable to avoid reading your own writing if you want to be a writer. And I do, even though all I’ve written in years is these small entries, little notes to people travelling in my part of the online world. But that, no matter how much I try to diminish it, is something. I’ve been writing a journal online for nine years now, and that is an accomplishment if I allow it to be, if I accept that it’s made me more and become a somewhat interesting artifact in and of itself.
There’s another thing. I want my journal to help me to become more of a person. More interesting - more everything. If I don’t go back in time, if I don’t reflect on my reflections, I won’t know where I’ve been, I’ll only know where I vaguely remember myself as having been, and that’s missing out on an important gift a journal gives: a way to dispel the fog memory gains and reremembering creates.
It’s only as effective as the initial writing is honest, though. Or, maybe more importantly, as complete as the initial writing is. I’ve written fewer than 40 entries this year. It’s the 128th day of 2011 now. I’m missing a whole lot of records of living and thinking and experiencing that I could have made in those times when I wasn’t actively living or thinking or experiencing, but pressing refresh repeatedly on two or three different websites. (If I knew exactly how much time I spent refreshing read pages and friends pages and other pages that haven’t been updated I’d feel very foolish when I whimper on a Sunday night about how fast the weeks and weekends go.)
So, forty entries. That’s nothing to read through, I told myself. I started with a post apologising for ending 2010 with a streak of not posting and continued on reading. I experienced none of the horrible shocks of disgust at myself for writing badly that I’d expected. I didn’t manage to reread a certain speech, but I did read the comments to it, and instead of saying “oh, could have been worse” like I’d imagined they did, they were quietly enthusiastic. I smiled and kept reading. I found entries that were painful to read, that I thought at the time communicated little of how I felt, and felt tender toward myself, understanding the pain she was experiencing and feeling compassion. I read on, saw how after January’s self-doubt my mood arced upwards steadily, as I got out and about and did exciting things and even briefly dated someone. That had interspersed the excitement and then sadness of the unsuccessful trip abroad - we *will* make it, Dar. Then came a dip in mood that I set myself to this task in part with hope that I could break through and out from it.
After reading, I felt happy. You know, a lot of the time I have a taskmaster in my mind, chastising me for not doing anything with my life, for resting, for lazing - often it’s justified chastisement, but it’s never truly helpful. It quieted down when it saw all my entries piled up, secure in their own existence and securing mine. I tagged entries as I went, too, and tended my journal, telling it it’s worthwhile, giving it a bit of care I can’t give it if it’s just that thing I waste time on.
Before I read back, I’d decided I’d like to be more thorough about reading back in time. Reread entries from a year previously (two, three, five) each month. Read back over the month when a month ends. I want to start living a little more consciously and I have the tools for that, I’ve been making them for years on end. It’s not enough for me to cower from my past successes and mistakes or treat me-yesterday as a disclaimed stranger. I’ve proven again that I can get strength from looking back at myself and my life. Now to continue to believe this and to live this. I want to have follow-through. I want to treat who I am as worthy. Not who I potentially am, but me, as I am.
I had a lot of objections! I’m always scared to read my own writing. It’s reasonable and intelligent and true at the very moments when I’m putting it down, but get a few moments beyond that and it’s become some representation of Why Me Doing Things Is Bad and I can’t look, I just have to get it out there because once I write an entry, I want to post it and get confirmation of my existence. Comments? Woot, I exist! Interesting comments? Woot, my friends exist!
But it’s not exactly reasonable to avoid reading your own writing if you want to be a writer. And I do, even though all I’ve written in years is these small entries, little notes to people travelling in my part of the online world. But that, no matter how much I try to diminish it, is something. I’ve been writing a journal online for nine years now, and that is an accomplishment if I allow it to be, if I accept that it’s made me more and become a somewhat interesting artifact in and of itself.
There’s another thing. I want my journal to help me to become more of a person. More interesting - more everything. If I don’t go back in time, if I don’t reflect on my reflections, I won’t know where I’ve been, I’ll only know where I vaguely remember myself as having been, and that’s missing out on an important gift a journal gives: a way to dispel the fog memory gains and reremembering creates.
It’s only as effective as the initial writing is honest, though. Or, maybe more importantly, as complete as the initial writing is. I’ve written fewer than 40 entries this year. It’s the 128th day of 2011 now. I’m missing a whole lot of records of living and thinking and experiencing that I could have made in those times when I wasn’t actively living or thinking or experiencing, but pressing refresh repeatedly on two or three different websites. (If I knew exactly how much time I spent refreshing read pages and friends pages and other pages that haven’t been updated I’d feel very foolish when I whimper on a Sunday night about how fast the weeks and weekends go.)
So, forty entries. That’s nothing to read through, I told myself. I started with a post apologising for ending 2010 with a streak of not posting and continued on reading. I experienced none of the horrible shocks of disgust at myself for writing badly that I’d expected. I didn’t manage to reread a certain speech, but I did read the comments to it, and instead of saying “oh, could have been worse” like I’d imagined they did, they were quietly enthusiastic. I smiled and kept reading. I found entries that were painful to read, that I thought at the time communicated little of how I felt, and felt tender toward myself, understanding the pain she was experiencing and feeling compassion. I read on, saw how after January’s self-doubt my mood arced upwards steadily, as I got out and about and did exciting things and even briefly dated someone. That had interspersed the excitement and then sadness of the unsuccessful trip abroad - we *will* make it, Dar. Then came a dip in mood that I set myself to this task in part with hope that I could break through and out from it.
After reading, I felt happy. You know, a lot of the time I have a taskmaster in my mind, chastising me for not doing anything with my life, for resting, for lazing - often it’s justified chastisement, but it’s never truly helpful. It quieted down when it saw all my entries piled up, secure in their own existence and securing mine. I tagged entries as I went, too, and tended my journal, telling it it’s worthwhile, giving it a bit of care I can’t give it if it’s just that thing I waste time on.
Before I read back, I’d decided I’d like to be more thorough about reading back in time. Reread entries from a year previously (two, three, five) each month. Read back over the month when a month ends. I want to start living a little more consciously and I have the tools for that, I’ve been making them for years on end. It’s not enough for me to cower from my past successes and mistakes or treat me-yesterday as a disclaimed stranger. I’ve proven again that I can get strength from looking back at myself and my life. Now to continue to believe this and to live this. I want to have follow-through. I want to treat who I am as worthy. Not who I potentially am, but me, as I am.
