When I was about ten, my grandmother gave me a little white diary that had a lock and key. I was thrilled, mostly about the lock and key, not the actual diary. I read Nancy Drew books at the time, and locks and keys felt very private-detective-ish. But I don’t remember having any secrets that required high-security handling. In fact, I believe most of my entries related to how the day began: “Mush for breakfast” was common.
I never wrote about heartbreak, disappointment, or disillusionment, nor about what I wanted to be when I grew up (in charge of a doll-repair hospital) nor about being under- (or over-) appreciated (though does any 10-year-old feel over-appreciated?) As far as I recall, I had no secret crushes on anyone at that point nor did I want to rant or rave about how my sister, brother, friends, and parents treated me. Frustrated desires – diaries are good for those, but I didn’t long too much for things I didn’t have. I didn’t brood about being liked or disliked. It’s possible I was oblivious to a lot of things. Truth be told, I was happy as a clam; I didn’t have a clue what to write in a diary because my life, unlike Nancy Drew’s life, felt pleasant and ordinary. And I was fine with that. I abandoned my diary after approximately one month of entries re: eggs, toast, oatmeal, orange juice, etc.
That lack of a need for a private journal seems to have followed me into adulthood. I’ve never kept a journal – at least, not the kind of self-reflective journal that a lot of writers keep in order to sort through their feelings. Not that I don’t fall asleep reflecting on the day’s strange bits and pieces and my relationship to them. But I don’t feel a need (or is it just laziness?) to keep a record of those thoughts. If I try to puzzle my thoughts out, I usually do it while washing dishes. No wonder I rarely use my dishwasher….
I do have lots of blank books which could be journals, but that’s only because I like blank books. Blank notebooks, too – cheap stapled ones, nothing fancy. Composition books, things like that. I seem to like blank paper in general. So full of possibilities! So pristine! I even collect notebooks when I’m traveling – buying them in stationary stores or school supply stores when I can find them. Here are two I found in Italy, one of them depicting quite a moment of discovery in the history of electricity (I think.) Sadly, or not so sadly – I’m not sure which – the notebooks are empty.
Though I don’t keep a journal, I do from time to time write down things I see or read which seem remarkable. A sign that said “Men Working in Trees” struck my fancy and made it into the little leather notebook I keep – I call it a “drift record,” that name taken from the idea of being a flaneur and drifting around the city, observing mostly people but also this, that and the other. Like interesting signs.
I named my blog after my drift record, so sometimes blog entries become a kind of journal (though ouch, no tactile pleasure, no lovely paper. Rather than keeping a record of my own thoughts, my real drift record serves to remind me that the world beyond me is a fascinating place. I often put scientific facts from The Smithsonian into my record – a couple of the latest being that it rains metal on Venus and that half of a river in Minnesota is missing. I keep a list of odd occurrences or sightings or facts that have nothing to do with secret thoughts. No lock and key necessary.
Empty notebooks. I keep buying them despite the fact I never fill them up. It’s a notebook addiction. Now I try to give the ones I buy to friends. I get some beauties from my friends, too; it’s one of the reasons we’re friends, I’m sure – a mutual love of little notebooks. When I go to Europe this spring, I’ll probably buy a few more – I’ll even pack a small notebook for recording where I stay, what I eat, what I see. That’s the plan. But chances are I’ll abandon it in the same way I abandoned my little white diary. I’ll be “in the moment” and I’ll forget my notebook. If I have a quick minute, I might write something – probably “farine d’avoine pour le petit déjeuner ” – mush for breakfast, Paris-style.