I used to keep a journal. Like an actual moleskine knock-off with silver-trimmed pages and a ribbon sewn into the binding. I kept several, actually, from the time I was 12 until my sophomore year of college. They were chocked full of my cramped, loopy chicken scratches – mostly in blue ink, but with a few pages of black from when I’d let one too many pens go through the washing machine.
The more I typed, the less I scribbled, and the last of my journals is sitting half-full collecting dust on the bookshelf by my bed in Columbia. I wish I’d kept at it. The thought of it being incomplete bothers me. I don’t even want to think about when the last dated entry is.
One of my editors tweeted this today. I’ve always been a Kerouac fan, and this fascinated me. After spending so much time trying to make sense of his rambling, haphazard prose, it’s interesting to see him put his thoughts to paper in a clear, relatable, even vulnerable way.
It made me think twice about picking up that old journal and doing the same.