I was looking through an old journal the other day from my freshman year at college, searching for an entry to use as a foundation for a guest post I was writing for a blog. The journal in question is pocket-sized, brown, and made of leather. On the cover, the word Journal is etched into the material. I bought it as an outlet in this new place where I would be more or less alone, in unfamiliar territory, grappling with a way to make it through the next four years without losing my scholarship or my mind. As I flipped through the pages, allowing myself to be momentarily pulled away from the task at hand, I marveled at how I subconsciously made the journal read like a novel. The ending even, while tapering off into unanswered questions, brings a close to an important part of my life.
Mind you, a lot of the writing is bad, especially the entry I was looking for to write this guest post. I am often too idealistic in the journal, self-pitying, and maybe even a tad delusional. It embarrassed me to skim over some of the passages. “What the hell was I thinking?” I’d ask myself, over and over. But, just as often, I realized that in this particular journal I would write about my days. Not just my feelings, but active accounts of what I’d experienced. It was interesting going back through those records of time, but sad, too, in a way. The other journals I kept after I got my job at the bank, became more so outlets to vent anger and more self-pity. Rarely did I drift off into tales with dialog and lyrical descriptions. I guess by that point, I didn’t think my life was too exciting or memorable anymore. And, in a way, I can see how I might’ve thought that. Typically, I went straight from school to work to home to do more work for classes, and by the time I was done, I just didn’t feel like doing anymore writing. So, instead of going to journals as a creative outlet, when I was in the mood to write, it was mainly to whine about my life.
So, when I found this journal from my first year off at college, I felt inspired. I wanted to journal like that again. It has been such a long time since I’ve felt like I’ve done any genuine writing, and when I do try to journal, impatience is close by itching my brain for something more “interesting.” That’s when I realized just how bad my focus has gotten. In this small, brown journal, I had written several entries that were pages upon pages in length. That required a time commitment and serious concentration. Understanding that made me wonder what had changed, how I’d gone from someone who wrote almost every day – not just in her journal, but also on her book – to someone who struggles to get one page on a Word document of anything.
I can feel myself wanting to write, be the person who wakes up early in the morning to get a few pages in before work, yet my body, or mind, is still trying to catch up with my feelings. Perhaps, it’s just because I’m young, or perhaps it’s because my entire life has been a string of failing self-motivation. I am sure there is some psychological answer about it being directly, but unnoticeably, linked to lack of self-confidence issues I’ve had since middle school. In fact, I am sure that is the reason. But, perhaps, the key to beating these issues is to write about them in the first place.
By the way, I really like the word “perhaps.”
