My Journaling Story

My Journaling Story 

I’ve been a journal writer for seven years, going through five notebooks and numerous ink cartridges. I must say I’ve never been extremely diligent, unless I was going through a period of ‘non-activity’, by which I mean I have no school, and nothing else to do except journal. I’ve ranted to these notebooks, told them my darkest secrets, rambled on and on about boys and other things of next to no importance. There are some pages which I would like to burn, but I’ve kept them. It would make interesting reading for me in my old age (although that is still very very far away) and for my descendants, who are as yet non-existent.  

I first learnt the word journal when I was around eleven years old. I’d been reading teenage angst novels. It seemed like a good idea to try journaling myself. For one, it sounded a lot more exotic than keeping a diary. During that time I was a quiet child, immersed in pre-teen angst. I stood out in my primary school. My skill have always lain with pen and paper rather than with a racket and a ball. Somehow, my peers and my teachers found that too difficult to accept. I was marginalized, bullied, made to feel like an alien. My life then was a misery. I tried talking to my parents, but they didn’t understand. My mother’s school had been a mini paradise. My father went to an all boys’ military style school. Boys fought with their fists, and the thing that got hurt the most was their flesh. Me, I lost my confidence and my ego was very much bruised.

In actual fact, some of my problems stemmed from my parents’ influence. They made me do maths that was years ahead of what my peers were doing. I was a geek and a nerd. I was too mature for my age, and far too competitive when it came to anything academic. My self-esteem was low, and I hungered for approval. My parents often told me I was stupid when I failed to understand a certain mathematical concept or problem. Praise was hard to come by. If I complained, there were dire consequences and the problems remains unresolved. So, a journal seemed to be the most adequate way to vent. My first notebook was a tiny hardcover exercise book, with blue lines. I wrote with a pencil, since I made many language related mistakes. Most of them were rants of anger; against school, against the bullies, the teachers, my brother, my parents, my life, the world. It felt good to write those things down, even though now it makes for embarrassing reading. Needless to say, that little notebook was so filled with negativity that I lost interest in journaling, until the next little problem, that is.

Towards the end of that year, my aunt presented me with two notebooks —one bound, and one spiral notebook. I started with the bound book. I’d always liked those; they seemed so old-fashioned, and I had a fetish for old things. At first, I limited myself to one page a day. That book was so beautiful I didn’t want to finish it. It was aqua, with pictures of Donald Duck and dotted lines. Soon I gave up. One page was too little for a day’s entry. I went onto two, then three. Looking back now, I can track my change in thought and handwriting. I began in cursive, ended in printing. It started off being a diary, recording everyday happenings. It ended up a journal; my own private confidante.

Now I try to write every day. Sometimes I write half a page; sometimes ten. It really depends on my mood. The notebook which I’m using now is a bound book, with a faux leather cover which has the word ‘journal’ embossed on it. I’ve filled it with many things; drawings, sketches, pictures of Orlando Bloom (my favourite actor), drabbles (shorts snippets of stories/moments in time) which I’d written, bits of dialogue with my muses, random doodles, story outlines—basically anything that went on in my mind, I put in there, if I had the time. I print out my blog entries, stick in images that take my fancy, collage. It’s all good fun, and I’ve found that I’ve written stuff that I would never have written in my creative writing otherwise.

At the moment, I’m so into my journaling that I’ve been devouring any journaling articles I can find, on the net and off it. My favourite place to journal is in my room; under the window during daytime, on my desk at night. I really don’t have a specific place in my schedule for journaling. I just do it when the mood takes me. And if I miss a day? Pfft, big deal. It’s a hobby, not a chore. I’ll just write about two days’ worth of stuff the next day.

I like writing with fancy pens, so for journaling, I use a refillable Parker fountain pen. It feels old fashioned and posh, all the while writing smoothly and with an elegance that no ballpoint pen can attain. Over the years, I’ve tried numerous mediums with which to write; sparkly gel pens, sparkly gel marble pens, normal gel pens, ballpoint pens, inky pens. I’ve always gone running back to my fountain pen. It’s the peak of luxury to feel its nib moving over paper. My other journaling/scrapbooking equipment includes a glue stick for collaging and sticking in pictures that take my fancy, colour pencils, mechanical pencils, normal 2B pencils, and my most recent addition, a pack of ten Crayola Supertip markers which can draw thick and thin lines.

What do I write about now? Mostly my journal entries centre around me. I rant on about my parents’ authoritarianism, and their lack of creativity. I lament my writer’s block. I write about fanfiction (another story entirely, but worth telling), my thoughts on myself and my own personality, my friends, how much I’m looking forward to/dreading University life, celebrity gossip. Basically anything that’s worth remembering. Believe me, it’s worth the time.

I won’t give any advice on journaling, since everyone’s different, but I will say what has worked for me.

·         Writing in bed ( a luxury especially in mellow light).

·         Sometimes changing locations (for me, I go to the nearby reserve, the lounge, outside under the washing where it’s drying in the wind).

·         Reserving prompts for when there is an actual need for prompting, and then doing those exercises in a different colour from what I usually use).

·         Drawing when the need to express myself takes me and I cannot think of the right words.

·         Writing dialogues between my muses and me, or just the muses themselves.

·         Write because I want to write, not because there is any obligation.

·         For privacy, I showed some of the most boring passages to my brother. He is now convinced that my journal is an utter bore and has no incentive to steal it.

·         I try to be as honest as I dare in my journal. It’s therapeutic.

·         I rant and say things that I would never say in real life, such as telling my dad in a letter that he has no right to criticize me and call me useless.

·         I try and take my journal with me everywhere I go.

·         Drawing when words fail me.

·         Choose a journal which I would write in naturally (on this point, I finally saw for myself the legendary Moleskine the other day at the bookshop. One of those notebooks cost NZ$40. I would not have been able to write in one, no matter how nice, because I would be terrified of making a mess in it. Recently, I’d bought two spiral bound A5 notebooks with sketch paper for NZ$4 each. They would work better for me than that hugely overpriced Moleskine, I’m sure. I picked them for their unlined pages. I’ve never had an unlined journal before; I hadn’t trusted myself.)

·         I read articles/books on journaling.