“Isn’t it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess what the writing on them will be.” – Maud Hard Lovelace, Besty in Spite of Herself.
I started writing in journals when I was nine years old, a few months shy of my tenth birthday. I saw a journal that I wanted and convinced my dad to buy me an early birthday gift and I’ve been writing ever since.
There were many ‘traditions’ that I had. There was a time when I started each journal on the first of January, a time when I named my journals; that only lasted for two years, and for a long while in my teenage years I would only use Jordi Labanda designed journals.
Since it’s the end of the year and my current journal only has a few blank pages left, I thought it was fitting to post a picture of my journals so far.
A few years ago I wondered when I would stop writing in journals. Maybe at age nineteen? Since it would be my last teenage year. But I couldn’t stop. There’s a deep, almost plaguing sadness when I think of having to never write in my journal again. So I stopped thinking about that and just continued writing.
There are times when writing is my only solace and my only friend. Sometimes it gives me the courage to do the things that I know I should do but feel unable to do without a push; writing is that push. I wrote a post before on writing which you can find here.
It’s strange reading my very first journal because I sound so different. We change all the time but we rarely notice it. When I read my journals from years ago I don’t see subtle differences from who I am now to who I was then; they’re immense changes, with experience being the main catalyst.
I don’t know what I’ll be like ten years from now, how future hardships or happy moments will affect my perspective but what I do know is that writing, in my journal in particular, will always be a constant.