What I’ve learned from two years of writing a journal

I’d love to sit and laugh at the non-dramas of my teenage diary. Chuckle at what I thought was world-ending and smile at my almost total freedom. But I never kept a teenage diary.

This is because my PITB brother found the diary of 12-year-old me hidden behind the lip of my wardrobe door and mortified me by reading it out. I mean, who would look in a hidden lip behind a hole in a wall that few people walk into?

So I never kept a diary or journal after then even though I desperately wanted to. It was one of those ‘things to do’ to make you a writer. And I reckon I’d have gotten some good stories from it too.

It took an emotional meltdown in my 20s to get me writing regularly again. And even then, I managed my two weeks of sick leave from work and quit. But those two weeks of pages have a navel-gaze brilliance like no other.

And when I was pregnant with my first child, I realised I’d never again have such carefree abandon and wanted to document that time I was almost cool. Plus all the free gigs and events firstborn went to while in utero. As far as I’m aware, the highlight of my pregnant mother’s time with me was the weekly trip to the supermarket.

I’ve kept a pretty much regular, if not daily, journal of my time during the past two years. Including over lockdown, which I’ll look back upon as the dullest and repetitive entries of them all.

Here is what I’ve learned from this:

1. It sets you up to create a new habit

Habit setting is pretty challenging to do. That’s why we don’t go to the gym or keep the diet. And why it’s easier on an evening to slump in front of the TV rather than do something creative. But committing to writing every day after I’d dropped the kids from school meant I formed a new habit. And therefore, it’s not a huge leap to do something else.

2. Morning writing clears your mind.

Most days, I get up and check my emails. There’s usually something in there that will send me into a tailspin of stress. But rather than going ahead and starting my workday on an anxious high, I’ll write through the stuff that’s spinning me out and be a lot more rational about it. I reckon it’s made me more productive too.

3. I work in cycles

I can read back and see when my mood dips, or there are times that I’m pushing myself too hard, and if I’d have a break, then more would be achieved. I also see the cycles in the relationships around me. Which means I can work on changing them bit by bit.

4. Writing more makes you a better writer

It doesn’t matter that most of what I write in my journal is utter rubbish intended only for my eyes. I get to warm up for the day and play around with language if I want. That space is mine to bitch and moan and make mistakes. I can rail against the unfairness of life or share my pride in some insignificant event. It doesn’t matter because it’s only for me. It’s my blotting-pad where I get to test things out and make mistakes. Then when I come to write with a purpose, I can be more attentive.

5. It’s never a waste of time

If you’ve ever started a novel (or had many false starts of a novel), you’ll know that at some point you decide it’s all a waste of time. Except it’s not. Every word you write, even if it’s only seen by one pair of eyes, is worthwhile. It’s all good practise for getting the right words in the right order ready for when someone else does need to see it.

6. It’ll be fun to look back

And equal amounts boring too. When I found my two weeks of 20s journalling, I could recapture that voice and feelings I experienced and use them for a story. I’m passed that phase in my life and how I felt at the time has become distant shadows.

Or from my first pregnancy, rekindling the outrage at some minor event that I now look back and realise was probably just pregnancy hormones. But still very much valid feelings. I can’t go back and relive those times, but I can dip into them in the journals.

7. Fodder for the future

Much like my 20s journal gives me a better insight into the thoughts and feelings of a 20-something living in a major city, my journal of the past two years will provide me with material for parenthood and pandemic lockdown. Who knows how I might develop and use this in the future?

Write and write often.

Okay, I’m no Samuel Pepys (although I’m not sure I finished his diary either) and I don’t think I’ll be some great re-teller of modern history down the ages. But this is the most extended period I’ve ever managed to keep a journal. And it’s been good for my mental health and my writing.

I can see the mistakes I’m making and correct them. I can see the daft cycles I get myself into, like getting stressed because I said yes to too much work. I can analyse how I feel about relationships and the world I’ve built.

But I know there’s as much to be said about what I’ve left out of those journals as to what I’ve included. Call it an awareness that one day someone might put their foot through the loft floor and decide to break my privacy again. Or my kids decide to see what I was like when they were little.

A journal is never just for you (unless you decide to burn it when it’s finished), but it is space like no other.