Ok. So it seems silly to introduce my writing journal as if it’s new… I didn’t date this one when I got it, so I can’t remember exactly how long I’ve had it, but I mention the 77 bus in one of the stories — which places it around 2008 or 2009.
It’s crazy that it’s taken this long to fill it. And, well, actually, I still have about 20-30 pages left. But of course, I already did that terrible thing of buying a replacement before I was actually ready of it. Writing superstition or something. I’ve had the new, blank journal for months now and completely jinxed myself for finishing the other. (Or something like that.)
I don’t guard my writing journal like I do my personal journal. Yet, it’s still a very personal book to me. It’s perfectly ok to fill the pages with crap. It’s my imagination dump — a judgment free zone. My handwriting is sloppy, my spelling is hit and miss, and I have a lot of my own little ways of annotating things.
I love flipping through the pages and seeing notes to myself in all caps. WRITE THIS BETTER. CONNECT LATER. Or when I use brackets because I can’t decide on the perfect word or phrase. … It’s just my writing, in the raw.
I’m always curious about other writers’ journals… Do they have a particular brand of book or pen they prefer? Do they write notes to themselves? Do they care about their handwriting? It’s like getting to see the inside of another writer’s mind… it’s just fascinating to me. But, well, this is not something writers do. While the writing inside isn’t our deepest personal secrets and desires… They’re our ideas. Little story babies that may one day grow up into published shorts or novels.
Unlike my other journal, I don’t see the bits and pieces as failures. They’re fragments and scenes I had to work out — things I’ve seen in my head so much that you feel like you’ll explode if you don’t get it on paper. (Or worse, forget that genius phrasing.) And those bits and pieces sometimes find their way into other stories. Slowly becoming a full story.
I guess part of why I’m hesitant to finish this particular book is because I’ve got some stories in there that I’m really attached to. Ideas I’m not ready to let go. It’s dumb, I know. I can still work on those stories in the new journal. It’s just… I’ve become attached to my little Piccadilly journal with the broken spine and worn out elastic strap.
But, it’s got blank pages and there are these things and scenes buzzing in my head that I should figure out how to put on those pages.