Yesterday, I reached seven thousand pages in my personal journal. I am near the end of my fortieth volume.
My first journal entry was on April 20, 1976. I was 18 years old. I have kept it up for 37 years.
Why have I kept it up?
Number 1. I am a writer. Writers write. It’s what writers do.
Number 2. We have a choice: expression or depression. I choose expression. Or it keeps choosing me.
Number 3. A journal is a place to practice with few negative consequences.
Number 4. It’s history. It is for my children and grandchildren. I hope it will be of value to them someday. Someday.
Though at times I have ripped pages out of my journal, it is mostly an intact record of my adult life. A record of my woes and joys, of trials and triumphs, of miracles, of my ever changing perspective.
Some of it is self-enamored drivel. I know that. But I forgive myself for that.
It is a pathway. It is both a method to relieve my madness and to relive my madness. And happiness. It works. It has been worth the effort.
I only wish I had written more.
P.S. This is not an April Fool’s joke.