Go to the Page (Or, why I journal)

my journal, photo taken with cell phone camera

I've been realizing lately that many people (see the comments section on that link) find journaling intimidating; they think it has to be beautiful, insightful, interesting, and publishable. I understand this desire to put good things down on the page. Putting pen to paper can feel like a commitment. But I use my journal as a place to rest, a place to put all the parts of me that need a place to land, no matter how beautiful/ugly, insightful/narrow-minded, interesting/banal, publishable/embarrassing they may be. Fellow writer/blogger/journaler Jen Lee has a good explanation of how she uses her journal as a catch-all here.

In my journal, I can rest on the page. I think this is a term that comes from Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. She encourages everyone to handwrite three pages each morning, just to quiet the internal chatter. This simple technique works wonders, no matter what time of day I do it. When I'm feeling especially unfocused and twitchy, I know it's time to go back to my journal, pen in hand, and just write whatever comes to mind, be that what I ate for breakfast, what I dreamt the night before, or what I'm worried about. Sometimes a poem sneaks in there. Sometimes I bitch and moan (and then deride myself for being so whiney) about everything and nothing. But all of those things need a place to be, so I put them in my journal. Otherwise they just float around in my head, whispering to or screaming at me.

When I go too long without this free-for-all mind-mapping brain-dump, I end up feeling lost and nervous in the labyrinth of myself. At those times, if I can just listen to my inner voice, it says: Go to the page, go to the page, go to the page. Often, it's only after I do that, after I allow myself to write whatever comes to me in whatever form it comes, can I move on to other creative work. (I almost said "real creative work," but I don't want to discount the reality of what happens in the journal.)

Here's an excerpt from tonight's journal entry, to show you why each and every time, I need to go to the page. It starts out boring and stupid as all hell. Then slowly something starts to emerge. To be honest, this doesn't happen every time. Sometimes I write a few pages and then get tired of my own prattle. But even at those times I come away feeling a little lighter, a little more focused.

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8/5/09 6:15pm

I still haven't gotten a handle on my schedule this week. Today I got up just in time to get dressed and go to my dentist appointment. No time for a shower or primping, so my hair looked sad and lackluster. Then I came home, had last night's leftovers for lunch, and spent several hours on the phone with J. and then F. I've been trying to get down to business for the last two hours. Instead, I made a snack, turned on the news, and played around online.

I'm feeling jittery. So I turned off the TV, cleaned up my dirty dishes, and shut the laptop. Now it's just me, a glass of iced water, the pen, and the page. And Gatwick the Catwick -- he's here cleaning himself.

I'm buzzing. I'm overcaffeinated and underslept. There's also a lot of creative energy buzzing about, but I need to harness it. Right now I'm just a bit of a buzzy mess.

I want to take a nap. Or go to Barnes & Noble to buy Julie & Julia so I can read it before seeing the movie. Instead, I'm going to focus on writing tonight. Oh, and I may bake a batch of tri-berry muffins so the raspberries don't go to waste.

Tomorrow will be a good day to try the new schedule. I have no other Nevermind. James is off tomorrow. And Friday I'm spending time with A. But back to this moment at hand.

At this moment, my hand holds this pen and makes marks across the page. At this moment the house is quiet. At this moment my teeth and jaw hurt from my dentist appointment. At this moment, deep breathing clears my head. At this moment, my hand slows down and the scribbling becomes intentional shapes on the page. At this moment ice cold water slides down my throat and leaves my tongue cool. At this moment the air conditioner turns on. At this moment I have a strong desire to read Madeleine L'Engle. At this moment, the buzzing starts to subside.

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