How an Over-Thinker Does Journaling
First, buy notebooks. Next, buy more notebooks.
As a writer, I journal. As an over-thinker, I catalog.
Obsessed with writing stuff down, I’m also compelled to impose a filing system on the stuff I write down. While others might keep a traditional journal, i.e. multiple volumes that record a single chronological arc, I maintain entire categories of journals.
Dearest Diary. The category for daily observations. My emotional responses to the exterior world. How my third-grade unrequited love led to my college misfit status, which led to multiple therapy sessions, which led to revelations about why it’s Dad’s fault I’m terrified of mice. Which inspires chapter after chapter after chapter in Dearest Diary. Format: artsy blank books, whose chichi covers enclose sheets of artisan papers, their edges soft as old corduroy. The most beautiful is hand-tooled leather with hand-tied binding. The craftsmanship humbles me. I feel devout, as I fill my journals front to back with profound insights, in A+ penmanship.
Nebulous Notes. Day-to-day observations. AKA Dearest Diary 2.0, because I can’t maintain the standard for profundity and penmanship that artsy journals require. Don’t tell anyone, but I also fail at the day-to-day. No morning pages for me. Far from daily, my volumes are replete with leaps in time. Turn the page on March 11, and you emerge on May 5. I puzzle over the silence. Perhaps I’d been preoccupied writing an actual book. Or obsessed with spring planting. Maybe I’d been comatose. Format of choice: black and white speckled composition books, bought at a local arts supply store. At only two bucks a pop, they free me up to make a mess or lose my train of thought, which is how I handle real life.
Freak-Out Features. Responses to immediate crises. I grab an FOF journal as an alternative to sobbing on the bathroom floor. I free-write through a disintegration, usually ending up with a big aha. As in, so that’s the reason I had a meltdown watching Monday Night Football. If I don’t reach an aha after a few free-write sessions, it’s back to the therapist. Format: an unlined version of the black and white speckled composition book. Unlined allows me to write upside down, sideways, in a circle. Unlined allows me to sneak up on a problem from the edges of the page. Unlined, because when you’re freaking out, you don’t want to be straight-jacketed by lines.
Digital Drafts. First drafts of online posts. I belong to a couple of web-based writing groups, and before I offer opinions, I’ll fine tune my commentary in DD. When I respond to readers’ comments on my Facebook blog, I draft those too. I figure, at a bare minimum a writer should be able to come up with actual sentences, as opposed to emojis.(It’s hard.) Format: the previously mentioned composition book. With post-it notes sticking out from the edges porcupine style, each stick-um labeled according to the comments’ destination: Goodreads, Instagram, Facebook, Reader Connection Project, Writers Helping Writers, Medium. Destinations change. I break up with Insta. I give Goodreads a second chance. Digital Drafts feels chaotic, like the internet.
Damn Fine Sentences. Quotes from books I’m currently reading. While I’m absorbed in another author’s prose, a sentence might jump out at me, the phrasing so luscious I have to stop and holler, “Oh damn!” I log it, along with the author and book title, into DFS. And then I’m challenged to express my appreciation using words other than oh damn. (See Digital Drafts.) Dawn, what spoke to you about this sentence? What does it teach you about the craft? Format: a college ruled, three holed, spiral bound notebook from Target. It’s homely on the outside, but the inside — oh my. The sentences are transcribed in turquoise, pink, gold, green, purple. Damn Fine Sentences is fireworks, vivid brilliance that inspires my own creativity, as I’m editing a work-in-progress.
Celebrate. Acknowledgements for my achievements. I recognize the major ones, like just finished writing book number four, as well as accomplishments that seem minor at first blush, but require heavy emotional lifting. Entries are sparse. I’m task-oriented and seldom lift my head from the drudge work, to pat myself on the back. Add jealousy into the mix, and it’s equally difficult to praise others. Therefore, the day I mail a complimentary note to a fellow author, I record the event. Format: A hard back, perfect-bound journal with a ribbon book mark, elastic closure, and soft cream colored pages. The cover is a close-up photo of a purple agate. Celebrate looks like jewelry and feels like a gift from me to me. Atta girl, Dawn.
Residual Randomness. Overflow. Did I mention I’m an over-thinker? Sometimes I don’t know where my musings should be filed. Is this a Freak-Out? An observation? A first draft? I panic. A misfile will cause disaster. In order to avoid a meltdown caused by the inability to properly catalog my current thoughts, I grab Residual Randomness. Format: a stack of copy paper on a clipboard. This method salutes the ultimate non-importance of anything I can put into words. In the spirit of impermanence, I toss the used pages into the recycle bin.
And then I reach for Celebrate, to acknowledge the accomplishment of letting go.
