Tag: #Journaling

  • The Act of Journaling

    I read an article in this week’s New Yorker, entitled “The Paper Tomb,” about the journals of Claude Fredericks. Who, you ask? In fact, the article starts off the same way. Unless you went to Bennington College, or are a deep dive fan of the novel, “The Secret History,” odds are you are like me, and this would be the first time his name has shown up in your life. What makes Claude Fredericks interesting, at least in this article, is that he spent an entire lifetime journaling, and expected it to be published. Also, Fredricks was an early proponent, autofiction, though in his mind, he saw the journal as the vessel of this media, and not the novel.

    I read the article last night, and I have been thinking about it since. I do like the ambition of a longhaul documentation of one’s life, in the sense that it is a fascinating art project. It’s like Andy Warhol’s “Sleep,” five and a half hours of a guy sleeping. Sure, it’s an anti-film, but it also plays on the idea of documentation to the point where it is actually just witnessing life. Can you truly document an entire life? We all know the answer is no. You cannot witness someone else’s entire life, nor can you get every detail of life down on paper.

    But what is it then? I journal, and I know a great number of other people who journal as well. Hell, Gary Shandling was a prolific with his journals. Are we doing this for ourselves, or do we all intend to have someone read them one day? Isn’t this just a fancy literary way of talking to ourselves?

    I have completed 38 journals that are anywhere from 200 to 300 pages long each. I started when I was 18 and continue to this day. They are in a box in the office, and most days I don’t think about them. Then I complete a journal, and go to throw it into that box, and that’s when I ask myself, who is this really for?

  • New Writing Schedule, and Some Inspiration

    Well, the good news is that I think we are finally coming to an understanding of what our daily schedule will be with the wife working at home, the kid remote schooling, and me floating around all of it, while writing when I get a chance.

    I can write this, a blog, when the kid is “in class” and my involvement is at a minimum. Writing in the journal is still during park time, which gives me a solid thirty minutes. Working on fiction is happening during the kid’s hour of TV time in the later afternoon. In the end, I get about two hours of writing during the week. Clearly, I would like more time, but this, right now, is keeping the balancing act working. With this tentative schedule in place, I am feeling a bit more relaxed, and have a reasonable expectation of what I can accomplish in a given week.

    The bonus effect of establishing this “schedule” is that I am now finding that I am inspired to go back to old ideas, and flesh them out more. Notes and sketches that I tucked away months and even years ago, have sprung to a new life, and are interesting to me again. I found myself working on an old story that I had shelved about a year ago, because I thought the idea had run out of steam.

    This isn’t really surprising, nor a revelation, but I had lost inspiration and drive of late. Small changes can make a difference. I have to remind myself that this is a marathon, and will take more time than even I expect.

  • Cowardly Writer

    A friend of mine, who I haven’t spoken to in over a year was awarded a grant so she could continue on her novel without having to look for a job at the end of the world. She is super talented, completely deserves it, and I’m very happy for her. The thing that piqued my interest was that my friend gave thanks to another author, who had informed her of the grant, when they had first meet at a writing symposium.

    As in all things it’s who you know.

    I know I have to have material in the first place; finish the novel, finish the story collection

    But, I think I know people. But I can’t bring myself to ask for advice or help.

    This is cowardly, but I think I’m afraid of my friends hating my work. I know I’m not in a place to share, but I can’t stay this way forever, as in my work will never see the light of day. I will never grow if I don’t open myself up.

    The journey is getting a little uncomfortable now…

  • A Place in the Woods, Reading and Writing Stories

    This morning, when I was journaling in the park, as I was running through some ideas and desires, I had a thought that, “I wish I had a place in the woods to read books and write.”

    Then my mind jumped right to an interview I had for a theatre conservatory in San Francisco back in January 2019. The interview was going really well, and then the woman asking me questions shot out, “If money wasn’t an object, what would you being doing right now?” And without missing a beat, I blurted, “I would be living at a place in the woods, reading books and writing stories.” She smiled a disappointed smile at me, and that pretty much ended the interview. It was clearly not the answer she wanted, as I didn’t get the job.

    Then I was reminded of an interview I had in February of this year for a rather prestigious theatre company. I had made it to the final round, and the managing director of the company asked me pretty much the same question, and again I said, “I would be living at a place in the woods, reading books and writing stories.” I think there were other issues with my candidacy, but again, I didn’t get the job.

    It reminded me of Maya Angelou’s quote, “When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.”

    I think sentiment cuts both ways.

    When I show people who I really am, I should believe it myself, the first time.

  • Journaling at the Park

    Yesterday, it rained in the morning, which meant that we didn’t get to have our early park time. No running around for the kid, and making new friends. And no sitting on a bench and writing in my journal. Over the course of this pandemic, park time has become a very essential, and needed outlet for the kid and me. She gets to burn off energy and have social interactions with other kids, and I get to start my day with organizing my thoughts.

    It was a slight monkey wrench to our day, but the sun did come out later, so we were able to make a late day park visit. The later time allowed us to discovered a whole different group of kids that my daughter loved playing with, and I got to have the introspection from the end of a day, rather than the beginning.

    I have been writing in a journal since I was 18, and I have over 30 notebooks filled. I like to think of myself like Thoreau when it comes to writing in a journal, but do sometimes wonder if I’m not the crazy recluse guy in the neighborhood, jotting down meaningless things in his notebooks. (It’s a fine line.) I have been journaling so long, that it is an engrained habit. But they aren’t reference books. Only rarely do I pick one up and go through it to see what I was thinking way back when. And I don’t use them to work out “story ideas” or anything like a creative workbook/sketchbook. It’s just a catching place of ideas, thoughts, sketches, and feelings… maybe a little documentation of events, but not very often. Journaling for me is a cathartic exercise. It is immediate, spontaneous, and in the moment, which again and again, I seem to discover is a theme for me when it comes to the art I enjoy. With everything going on in the world right now, I need to have an outlet for all of these pent-up emotions, and hopefully, I can find a constructive use for them.