Journaling the Journey

Happy New Year, Everyone. Although life’s journey constantly changes, journaling has been a constant for me.

I’ve been journaling in one form or another since I first learned to write. Sometimes sporadically, other times obsessively. It all began with composition books. Remember those? The black‑and‑white splotched hard covers, the lined pages sewn and glued into a binding so sturdy even a Cudjo‑like dog would struggle to shred it. Today’s versions aren’t nearly as tough, as evidenced by the crumbling remains in my grandson’s backpack. No dog or cat required.

As a kid, the empty pages of used composition books were mine. My scribblings recounted playground trespasses, bickering little sisters, and imaginative stories — mostly stories, since I wasn’t allowed to complain out loud and, as the eldest, was expected to “know better.” I’d scrounge up a Bic pen or one of my dad’s misplaced mechanical pencils and retreat to a quiet corner of our busy house. Writing gave me space to think without commentary or judgment from my large, loud family. My imagination dove into adventures and epic yarns, and I looked busy enough that no one questioned the importance of my task.

Eventually, diaries replaced the composition books. The pretty covers and tiny locks with teeny keys gave my written thoughts intrigue. They became secrets. Though the teeny keys were far too easy to lose. I never suspected anyone of snooping (apparently I wasn’t as intriguing as I imagined), but I still tucked my diary into my pillowcase or pajama bag, just in case.

These days, I keep a journal nearby — plain‑covered, lined, spiral‑bound. No need to hide them since I remain not so intriguing. I give myself a year to fill each 6×8 book. Some years I need two or three. In other years, I fall short by a few months. Cups of pens with every imaginable grip, ink viscosity, and color sit on tables throughout the house. They share space with other things like sticky arrow markers, a tiny screwdriver to tighten eyeglasses, and laundry stain sticks (coffee spills happen). 

Most entries recap a busy day, rehearse the next, and list whatever needs listing. I ponder the news, upcoming challenges, and strategies for meeting them. Angst and insecurity always find their way in. I write through worries about expectations, obstacles, my kids, my students, ongoing family drama, and the surly cat.

Stories fill the pages too. I draft characters and plots — many abandoned after the first scribble, a few promoted to Google files, and a couple that journeyed all the way to publication. My blog posts, children’s picture books, and novels are all born from this steady journaling practice.

Journaling lets me declutter my mind onto paper, expressing myself without commentary or judgment. It remains an essential part of my writing process and my well‑being.

How about you? Do you journal your journey?

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