A journal or diary is more than a living autobiography; it’s a companion, too. A confidante for the mundane and exciting experiences we find ourselves in. A dumping ground for angry rants and sobbing cries. A journal is my interiority turned exterior. I almost never leave the house without it.
When I write in my journal, I don’t do so for documentation purposes. Sure, sometimes that historicity enters the pages, but that’s just the human mind at work. I mostly use my journal as a practice space, like how an artist might use a sketchbook to rough out a few ideas before turning to canvas. I do the same with my journal.
A lot of the stuff I write is rough, and I mean really rough. Even the stream-of-consciousness stuff is pretty rough. I misspell a lot of words, use very little punctuation, and often repeat myself. I make many of those same errors here, too. But that’s all a part of the fun. Sometimes you need somewhere to get messy for a while and really tear shit apart. For me, my journal is that place.
However, I wish that I was more consistent with it sometimes. And I guess I feel that same way when it comes to my other writing, too. I wish I was more consistent. But that’s also just how I work, as much as I’d love a really stable routine and have often tried to establish one, creative ideas and the motivation to write don’t stick to a schedule like that.
Maybe one day I’ll get there.
On days when I want to journal and write something down, but nothing’s getting me there, I often do some collaging instead—a take on junk journaling or art journaling. I find that creative yet methodological process of finding a theme or aesthetic and making something out of these found items a fun sort of puzzle and creative challenge. And because I’m not writing and I don’t feel under the obligation to make something original, there’s less pressure and more freedom, in a way.
I know I should take that pressure off of my writing practice, but I find it difficult to do, maybe it’s because there’s too much to compare myself to.
Today, as of writing this, I’m having one of those difficult to get the words out sorta days. Last weekend, I felt like I was bursting at the seams with creative possibilities. I had that itch to write, and I felt accomplished because I managed to write a decent amount of words. But today, it’s like I’m fighting through knee-high mud just to form an idea or possibility of something worth writing down. Usually, this is where my journal will come in handy and inspire me to get something out, but I find that today, at least, that’s a bit of a struggle, too.
My companion and confidante while still by my side, offers no comfort today.
Writer’s block is a hell of a thing.
CupsOfSilver 
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