I've never been much of a journalist, as in filling pages in a blank book every night before switching the bed lamp off, though I have given it a good shot several times earlier on. The most memorable one was when, at age twelve, I found a locking diary in my Christmas stocking. Beginning with the new year and crisp, white pages edged in gold, I wrote every day for a couple months. My favorite entry from that first diary? On January 3rd I wrote, "Boy, this year is going by fast!"
I grin now, at the memory.
Because years and life and blank books later, I know better who I am. I know that pouring the day out onto pages in a book every night isn't me. And, thank goodness it isn't, because I personally can't think of much else that sounds as flat as that (preparing taxes, maybe?).
I have many books with lined pages on the shelf, some are filled, others are waiting in queue. What's in them you say?
The creative ideas that constantly fly around in my head have to end up somewhere, so they're put down in pages. I have sketches and notes from baby showers that I hosted 10 years ago; there are sewing patterns, gift lists, recipes, holiday plans, gardening ideas, and the list goes on. I give myself no rules for keeping these books, save for a knowing that 'this book (or this section of the book) is for these ideas; that one is for those' (entertaining; interior design, decor & floorplans, sewing, homeschool, gardening, etc.). Inside, they are pretty close to a free-for-all of pencil scrawl.
I grin now, at the thought of all those journals. I grin at the knowing.
This is my way.