As
a writer, I’ve written in journals a good portion of my life, my first entry
being I one that my oldest sister gave to me when I was around ten years
old. I have every journal I’ve ever
written in but have never allowed others to read them.
A
few years back, my youngest daughter asked if she might have my journals when I
die. Without having to think about it, I
responded in the negative, telling her that I intended to either destroy my
journals before then or have them go in the ground with me.
Talking
with a friend recently, the same subject keeps recurring. They want to know if I’d ever consider
sharing what’s in my journals. Again,
I’ve responded in the negative. That’s
resulted in more interesting conversations.
According
to my friend, journals are a living chronicle of where one’s been, a resource
for higher understanding and a means to untangle where we might be headed. My friend also believes they’re meant to be
shared with others to provide more insight into the author.
According to me, I agree with how journals
chronicle our lives, can teach and guide us.
But I’ve never once written in any of my journals with the intent to
have others view my writing—my innermost thoughts.
Unlike
the manuscripts I write, my journals are a hodgepodge of oft-disconnected
thoughts and ramblings that would make little sense to others. There are also times when I jot down writing
concepts. More times, my penned thoughts
are my way of “vomiting up” everything that’s within me—good, bad, joy, sorrow,
it’s all contained within the pages of my journals.
I
see no reason to have others read my journals to get to better know who I am
and what makes me tick. To me, it stands
to reason that if a person wants to get to know me, then they’ll put in the
effort to interact with me personally.
But then…the repeated conversations I keep having about how others would
someday like to be privy to my journaled thoughts give me pause.
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