In another life I was an avid blogger. Like most teenagers, when I turned sixteen I felt that my pretentious and melodramatic rants were worth reading and so signed up for a Livejournal. I maintained it for an embarrassing five years. Of course the inclusion of the word “journal” is very misleading. A little piece of the internet that anyone is free to read and judge is not at all a journal. It’s a blog. They are very different things.
Aside from the tragicomedy of adolescence, in my “journal” I discussed my writing. I usually shared a title, an excerpt, and a veiled explanation of my current frustrations. In no way did I go into specifics. I left everything intentionally vague, the reason being that there were people out there reading it. Do you really want people that may read your writing to get the behind the scenes look and read the specific challenges you face? Of course not. You want to present them with a piece of writing in its most flawless and complete form. If they’re aware of what dilemmas you faced—if they’ve read an explanation of what you meant to say—the spark that occurs between reader and written piece will ultimately be lackluster and fizzle out with no emotional impact. Of course this is all taken to extremes considering my writing at the time was too horrible to garner any emotional impact, but the sentiment was at least in the right place. A friend once told me, “It’s your magic show.” I think this is a very strong piece of advice. You don’t reveal the tricks.
So then what is the use of the “journal” if you’re only dropping hints—if you’re only creating mystery? More than anything it sounds like an elaborate way of jerking off in front of a mirror. In 2006 I started my first private journal since grade school—kept in an actual notebook. For personal subjects alone I think I learned more about myself than I’d ever hoped to, but for my work—my writing—I was introduced to an entirely new system of tracking my thoughts. In my journal—my real journal—I could share absolutely everything because unless my privacy was violated there would be no soul reading it. I could write about what exactly in a story or a poem was bothering me. I could go into detail about my expectations for a piece, my hopes, my aims. It lifted that necessity for secrecy and opened up the possibility to uncover the real problems in my work.
Today I carry my Moleskine everywhere. I write in it almost every day. In this journal I have worked my way through countless plot holes and problems with my novel. I’m continuously amazed that in the middle of writing a sentence about what’s bothering me I’ll come up with a viable solution. The most commonly occurring word in my journal is probably “Yes”—an ongoing reassurance that I have solved a problem. The entire novel itself—its characters and its plot and its overarching structure—was conceived in a series of journal entries in 2008. It’s my way of thinking—a thought process set in ink that I can return to at any time. It has been especially helpful during the revision process, and I wouldn’t trade it in for anything—not even the fanciest storyboard software.
I’m curious to see if any of Xenith’s readers maintain a private journal. Does this habit work as well for anyone else? If not, what is your method? How do you keep track of your thoughts? How do you work through your issues? How do you analyze things like plot and character development on a larger scale?
Also, I feel like I should make a plug for Moleskine. World’s best notebook. Fan4life. Thanks for bringing it back.
