On the analyzation of the art of journaling itself:

I write in this [journal] in order to receive judgment, but it is certainly differs from the kind of judgment that results from others reading my work; it is that of me first writing my work, howsoever rudimentary, and then reading it, over and over and over again.  It differs from the feedback and ultimate censorship of others — be them either fellow writers or those who do not identify with or claim to be writers — though who is not a writer, when all one does is notice things, and maybe occasionally put them to a page — because it is me judging myself; and because I myself am my very own best and worst critic.

I like to see my thoughts in my own handwriting, however selfish and self-serving that may sound…to have a record of it.  It is good and helpful as an amateur writer to know what I think and have thought and when I thought it, to hear my own voice and to see how I have evolved over days, weeks, or even years.

And what is in it, it is finite.  It is what I have said or thought in that moment.  It is done.

A journal is also a good place to put recipes, overhead conversations, photographs, ticket stubs, doodles, drawings, and letters I never intended to send.  I could begin a story, write what I need to buy from the grocer or list a whole bunch of words that have nothing in common save for that they all feel lovely on the tip of my tongue.

(To my future, older and wiser self: Please, I beg of you that you pardon my present penmanship; I have just gotten onto a bus.)

I do enjoy writing lists: lists books I should read, of things that need doing, of songs I’d like to learn on guitar, of things I need or want, of people to whom I would like to send letters or of places I’d one day love to see…
And more than I enjoy writing lists, I enjoy crossing things off of lists: that crisp line, just one, plain and simple, that goes straight through the words of something you’ve done.

*  *  *

I write about every sense, not just sight.  Sight is easy; it is only what you see.  There is so much more than that.
Smell is my favorite of the senses:  the smell of freshly cut grass or coffee grinds, of cold air or burnt toast; taste, too, is worthy of notation: of marmalade or cough syrup, of almonds dissolving or chocolate, all of which provoke an independent memory, sensation or emotion, and all of which can be used in story.

*  *  *

I’ll write about daily events, exciting or no.  I’ll complain about how much my bones hurt or the blisters on my feet and hands or the boy who gave me eyes as he was getting off the elevator that I was about to board.  About the actions of people who I know or don’t, I’ll praise or protest or write of whatever falls between the two antipodes.  I’ll write of how I both adore and abhor we mortal men.

*  *  *

Sometimes I write in my journal as though I am my character his- or herself, writing in theirs (namely and presently Eunice,
if only because Henry does not keep a one and Francis Lee is not allowed) in order no longer to read my own inner most thoughts, but theirs.  At this point, it is no longer me writing, but them; because in order for them to be real, at least to me, they
must think and breathe and eat and drink and smoke and sleep and fuck all on their own accord, albeit through my pen, by my hand.

And sometimes I feel guilty about putting Eunice through as much heart-break as I do, but without it, if I were not to,
there would be no plot.

Besides, is it my fault that her father smoked and died of stroke, that she miscarried her first child, that Francis Lee crashed his plane and was wrongfully imprisoned or that she is or was a complete and utter failure as a mother?

Don’t answer that.

*  *  *
I love the look of a blank page, and then, just a moment or two later, to look at that very same page and it is not blank.  It is a slow process which only happens letter by letter, then word by word, paragraph by paragraph and entry by entry.

I love when a book is empty and then it is not empty, when it is not full and then it is full, and to know that it is something that I have created from nothing, which defies outright the principles and laws of the conservation of mass and matter.  It fills me to the bone with a warmth like cooked oats and apples in wintertime, which is beautiful.

And I love the sound of keys clacking against a page.