StalkingJournal

Journals. If I had a buck for every one I've started, I'd be a wealthy woman. Beginning a new journal is probably the cheapest, quickest, least stressful way I know to "reset the energy." I find that keeping one puts me in a slightly different relationship to self and experience than when I'm not keeping one. Every journal I begin brings another opportunity to actually follow through with something. That's important. In spite of the rush I get from that clean, new notebook, I really do want to journal in a sustained way. Every time, I tell myself I WILL keep it up! (Oh yeah.)

I've created little questionnaire forms that asked for things like high point, low point, insight, kindness, accomplishment, and what do I want to forgive myself for.

The biggest overall problem I have with my journals is that I tend to keep them much better when I'm depressed, and then they end up depressing or embarrassing me when I read through them later. They tend to get melodramatic and sloppy. They also tend to get redundant with what I've already said in email. When I have a deep correspondence going with someone, it tends to drain away a lot of that journal-keeping energy.

One, of course, is poetry. Often before I go to bed, I sit down and attempt to capture one experience from the day in poetic form. The thing I like about a poem journal is that it lacks continuity, so if I miss a bunch of time, there's not that feeling of needing to catch up.

But we are not all poets. Sometimes even those of us who are can't find the groove. It was from one of those grooveless nights that there sprang the idea of a fiction journal. An alternative to writing a poem is taking one slice of the day and writing it up as if it were a paragraph in a novel.

In addition to providing a fairly deep journal, this practice is a wonderful way to hone writing skills. My novel-journal entries often become the inspiration for poems, and I'm sure people who write short stories and other things will find such a journal equally rich in ideas.

You can describe a physical reality, such as what it's like to cook dinner in your kitchen or have coffee with your neighbor. It's the kind of detail I hardly ever included in more standard journaling, because from that perspective, it's too taken-for-granted to mention.

You can write your own truth or someone else's. Perhaps you gave spare change to a homeless person. Your paragraph can be about your experience of doing that or about what you imagine his was.

You can write the beginning of a review of a book you are reading or a paragraph of political commentary inspired by something you heard on the news.

You can practice dialog, description, stream of consciousness, and speaking in different voices. You can write in first person or third person. You can write humor or eroticism. You can play with different styles. There are no limits, and every night it can be different.

There's no continuity problem. And while I can write as much as I want, I'm only requiring of myself one small paragraph. That sometimes shakes down to only a couple of sentences, and yet they are sentences that must be crafted and expressed in a "literary" way. This gets rid of a lot of the self-indulgent drivel that makes me want to cringe when I read my journals later on. Even when I'm dealing with depression or anger, the form pushes me to do it with perspective and creativity. Other than the poems, it's the only journaling method that I actually enjoy reading latera major issue for someone who once threw twenty-five years worth of journal beginnings into a bonfire.

Lying in bed, she found herself at the juncture of two rivers. From one flowed reality created by God, from the other reality created by the chance meeting of chemicals. Within the first, she knew herself as the tarot's Fool stepping off the cliff. The other contained no metaphors at all and felt like falling out of love.

"I wish I could tell you how many times I wanted to take you in my arms and hold you," he said, "but I didn't want to risk the friendship."

The breeze touched her cheek and moved on. Looking down at him, who would not again in this lifetime know love, she wondered about his last time and if he'd known it would be his last time. Some people seem old to the marrow, but he was so clearly a virile young man trapped within flesh that betrayed him. She touched his hand and smiled realizing in another place and time she could have loved him in that way.

Her feet, small and plumpish, had a youthful look some other parts lacked. Funny, after all this time, to see them there, propped on the side of her mother's tub, as they had been day after day, year after year, from seven until eighteen. This snapshot of feet and naked thighs, at once intimate and invisible, was probably more familiar than her face. Did anyone else ever think about the changing landscape of the toilet's-eye view of the self?

Oh shit! The unmistakable paddle of feet down the hall. Too late. She was caught, and bareass naked in the bargain. There was just enough time for a cringe. Well, it was her body, wasn't it? And something that everyone did. If she caught a daughter at this shameful deed, she'd walk straight by and pretend she hadn't seen, but such was not the way of her mother. The boom fell like thunder:

She'd always thought of herself in terms of containing opposites, but perhaps she was really more like a moibus strip. The theory made her sound exotic, but the practice had her comparing computers at Best Buy when she was losing sleep over a going-broke that seemed inevitable.



			Stalking the Ideal Journal Posted April 27, 2001 Journals. If I had a buck for every one I've started, I'd be a wealthy woman. Beginning a new journal is probably the cheapest, quickest, least stressful way I know to "reset the energy." I find that keeping one puts me in a slightly different relationship to self and experience than when I'm not keeping one. Every journal I begin brings another opportunity to actually follow through with something. That's important. In spite of the rush I get from that clean, new notebook, I really do want to journal in a sustained way. Every time, I tell myself I WILL keep it up! (Oh yeah.) I can't tell you how many approaches to journaling I've taken. I've written free form. I've structured my journal in the form of letters. I've done Ira Progoff. I've drawn a Tarot card in the morning and focused my evening journal entry around how it related to my day. I've worked with selected exercises and prompts. I've written for a certain length of time or number of pages without allowing my hand to stop. I've created little questionnaire forms that asked for things like high point, low point, insight, kindness, accomplishment, and what do I want to forgive myself for. The biggest overall problem I have with my journals is that I tend to keep them much better when I'm depressed, and then they end up depressing or embarrassing me when I read through them later. They tend to get melodramatic and sloppy. They also tend to get redundant with what I've already said in email. When I have a deep correspondence going with someone, it tends to drain away a lot of that journal-keeping energy. There are two journaling exercises, however, that I've found relatively easy to sustain. One, of course, is poetry. Often before I go to bed, I sit down and attempt to capture one experience from the day in poetic form. The thing I like about a poem journal is that it lacks continuity, so if I miss a bunch of time, there's not that feeling of needing to catch up. But we are not all poets. Sometimes even those of us who are can't find the groove. It was from one of those grooveless nights that there sprang the idea of a fiction journal. An alternative to writing a poem is taking one slice of the day and writing it up as if it were a paragraph in a novel. In addition to providing a fairly deep journal, this practice is a wonderful way to hone writing skills. My novel-journal entries often become the inspiration for poems, and I'm sure people who write short stories and other things will find such a journal equally rich in ideas. You can describe a physical reality, such as what it's like to cook dinner in your kitchen or have coffee with your neighbor. It's the kind of detail I hardly ever included in more standard journaling, because from that perspective, it's too taken-for-granted to mention. You can describe inner realities fantasies or insights. You can write your own truth or someone else's. Perhaps you gave spare change to a homeless person. Your paragraph can be about your experience of doing that or about what you imagine his was. You can write the beginning of a review of a book you are reading or a paragraph of political commentary inspired by something you heard on the news. You can practice dialog, description, stream of consciousness, and speaking in different voices. You can write in first person or third person. You can write humor or eroticism. You can play with different styles. There are no limits, and every night it can be different. There's no continuity problem. And while I can write as much as I want, I'm only requiring of myself one small paragraph. That sometimes shakes down to only a couple of sentences, and yet they are sentences that must be crafted and expressed in a "literary" way. This gets rid of a lot of the self-indulgent drivel that makes me want to cringe when I read my journals later on. Even when I'm dealing with depression or anger, the form pushes me to do it with perspective and creativity. Other than the poems, it's the only journaling method that I actually enjoy reading latera major issue for someone who once threw twenty-five years worth of journal beginnings into a bonfire. Here are some samples from my fiction journal: Lying in bed, she found herself at the juncture of two rivers. From one flowed reality created by God, from the other reality created by the chance meeting of chemicals. Within the first, she knew herself as the tarot's Fool stepping off the cliff. The other contained no metaphors at all and felt like falling out of love. *** * * "I wish I could tell you how many times I wanted to take you in my arms and hold you," he said, "but I didn't want to risk the friendship." The breeze touched her cheek and moved on. Looking down at him, who would not again in this lifetime know love, she wondered about his last time and if he'd known it would be his last time. Some people seem old to the marrow, but he was so clearly a virile young man trapped within flesh that betrayed him. She touched his hand and smiled realizing in another place and time she could have loved him in that way. * * * Her feet, small and plumpish, had a youthful look some other parts lacked. Funny, after all this time, to see them there, propped on the side of her mother's tub, as they had been day after day, year after year, from seven until eighteen. This snapshot of feet and naked thighs, at once intimate and invisible, was probably more familiar than her face. Did anyone else ever think about the changing landscape of the toilet's-eye view of the self? * * * Oh shit! The unmistakable paddle of feet down the hall. Too late. She was caught, and bareass naked in the bargain. There was just enough time for a cringe. Well, it was her body, wasn't it? And something that everyone did. If she caught a daughter at this shameful deed, she'd walk straight by and pretend she hadn't seen, but such was not the way of her mother. The boom fell like thunder: "I thought you said you didn't do that? So tell me. How much do you weigh?" * * * She'd always thought of herself in terms of containing opposites, but perhaps she was really more like a moibus strip. The theory made her sound exotic, but the practice had her comparing computers at Best Buy when she was losing sleep over a going-broke that seemed inevitable. I'd love it if you would share in the guest book about your experiences with journaling.**







		Index