” I believe it’s always the simplest moments in time where I see most clearly, not peering through or beyond, but directly into that instant. It urges me in hushed whispers to write down or photograph the moment so it will become more than a fleeting memory. At this point it’s about quiet listening for the words that fit. Snippets of imagined ideas emerge and the poetic rhythm and rhyme begin to take shape.”
I have, for a very long time, been in possession of a journal. I distinctly remember my first. It wasn’t very chic — rather it was what it looked like — the journal of an eight-year-old.
I don’t know when exactly I received it, (maybe a gift for a birthday or a prize from a late- April Easter basket.) What I do remember is delighting in opening the first page, writing ‘ E I I Z A B E T H ‘ inside the front jacket in bubbly juvenile script, and claiming it as my own. I loved opening the pages, liked the sensation of physically filling it with the banalities of my life, the quick sketches of what I had done done day.
That feeling still holds, as I feel I will forever be a journal keeper. At least I hope so. My current journal is a combrination of sources. First and foremost it is this blog. Secondly, it is the notebook I carry with me at all times, a collection of to-do lists written in sharpies, a workbook of sorts for my many percolating ideas.
Virginia Woolf passed away on this day in 1941 at the age of 59 in East Sussex Englad. A personal model of mine, Miss Woolf was an epic journal keeper, yet a late-blooming self-recorder at that. Her first entry in her personal journal occured at the the age of 33. She then went on to pen over fifty individuals volumes of her daily life up until her death.
Here’s to you Virgina, for inspiring a legion of journalers, and for being ever-so-perfectly elegant and precise with your writing.
“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace amything, solemn, slight, or beautiful that comes into mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through.”