Image by congerdesign from Pixabay
I keep journals. Lots and Lots of Journals. It seems an odd thing to do, considering their contents.
Filled mostly with notes of the day, projects I’m working on, bits of conversations with the people involved—private thoughts, some rants, and more often now, poetry.
Different kinds, sizes, and shapes. I recently switched from the notebooks used for schoolwork to journals with ribbon markers and page numbers and pages for table of contents, in case there’s something important to keep track of.
In the Learning to Write Poetry Class I’m currently taking as I pursue a degree, we read about ‘Poets Journals’ - from decades, if not hundreds of years ago. I’d never thought about reading Emily Dickinson’s journals. Her private diaries. Doesn’t she have enough books published for public consumption?
I think about all the things I’ve written in my journals and diaries and there are things even I don’t like revisiting, and they’d surely twist the minds of a read…
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