I have let all of the old words go; dropped them into the dumpster of time never to return. Back in the mid ‘90’s I was inspired by Julia Cameron’s work The Artists Way and like so many people I began writing morning pages and these evolved into regular journal writing. I was only writing for myself in order to make sense of the world and my errant mind. As expressed by The Moody Blues, these were my “letters I’ve written, never meaning to send”.
My journal is a place for me to whinge and complain, and to try to get some kind of perspective on normal things going on in my life.
I still have a journal that I write in once in a while. But while going through my mother’s belongings recently after her death, I was struck by the impropriety of this act. It felt like snooping and I didn’t want to find anything that would make me feel uncomfortable. So I thought about my children and if they had to face this difficult task, and I thought that I wouldn’t want them to read the crap in my journals. It was only meant for me anyway and there is nothing noteworthy contained within the scribbled pages. So they have gone. And I must say I feel liberated. I was tempted to read the old words but after a few pages I could almost recall the whole lot – 17 years of it. Blah! I did find this little gem stuck in the pages and it made me laugh:
I’m writing enough words at present: at work; in my online blogs; and for my Masters studies. My journal is neglected and that is not a bad thing.