One blank page remains in my notebook. Three other notebooks are nestled into my bookshelf, spines blank but creased from being opened over and over. They are nothing fancy, but they contain the past five years of my life.
I wasn’t always a fan of journaling. I kept a few diaries as a kid, writing with purple gel pen about my day in school. I enjoyed it, and continued through my teenage years. But when I was sixteen, my family moved, and as I packed up my room I flipped through the notebook that had served as my thus-far teenage journal—and I threw it away. I wanted to forget about my awkward years.
Anyway, what was the point of writing down all this stuff? Wasn’t that a waste of time, especially when I could be writing something better, like stories or blog posts, things other people could actually read?
And I did write stories. Still, after a while, I felt lost and unsure about what I wanted to write. At the time, I was a member of a writers’ group, and I brought up how I was feeling.
One wise writer told me I should keep a journal. I squirmed. It had been a couple of years since I’d thrown my old one away, and I was still wary of the idea. How could blabbing on about my feelings help me as a writer?
She explained to me that a journal wasn’t just for writing about feelings—I could write about everything. Pay attention to conversations, new experiences, and then write about it. Eventually, she said, it would become the “grist,” the material I would need to create stories.
So I went out and bought a blank notebook. I started writing about my life and the people in it. When someone said something funny I held it in my mind until I could retell it. I thought of ways to describe the places I went and the things I saw, and I tested them out in the pages of my journal. I made note of what stood out to me, whether it was a thought, a remark, or the way the light looked on my drive to work.
I wrote about the bigger stuff too. Hours spent with people that are now my best friends. The night I met the man who is now my husband. Questions I had about life, dreams I had for the future. Journaling turned into a habit, every few days finding me lying in bed on my stomach, propped up on my elbows, scribbling away. I saw the pages warp with lines of ink.
Journaling became much more than a dowsing rod for story ideas. In the process of filling a series of notebooks, I’ve learned to observe more fully, to listen more intently. I’ve learned how to choose not only what was important to include in a story, but also what was important to me.
The writer had told me, “You start the journal looking for grist. Then life becomes the grist.” She was right.
Author: H. McElliott
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: H. McElliott is a Cleveland, OH native currently living in Denver, CO with her husband. She loves books, travel, and Halloween.
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