I don't know what I'd do without my journal. I've completed over 200 journals and I'm still journaling.
On Sunday, I read my raw short story 'Til We Meet in Heaven. I mentioned that I first wrote it in my journal in February 2005 during a bad winter storm. I wondered how my ancestors buried in Horning Mills would have survived a bad storm. The what if prompted me to write the short story.
For years, I wrote by long hand in my journal and then typed up my stories, poems, or parts of a novel on the computer. In order to save time, I learned to compose at the computer. Most of my pieces still start by hand and then move to the computer. If I'm having trouble starting or finishing a writing project, I always revert back to writing in my journal. For me, handwriting allows me to find "flow."
July 6, 2001 Journal
I had two dreams that talked about my writing. I’m hedging. When I allow myself to write then everything else falls into place. I ’m just a beginner. I push my worries aside. Maybe I’m afraid I might have to write about the disasters of my youth.
What ever happened to our dreams? Polished and left in our closets or locked away in a special room. Afraid to breathe or begin a new life, we retreat, we take the bus, follow the crowd and we lock away our special dreams.
Who are we to dream? Who do we think we are? We cringe and our dreams remain hidden and silent. We take the bus and live an ordinary life. Who are we to dream?