On Journaling (or, Notes from a Reluctant Practitioner)

Don’t ask me how to keep a journal!

I say that only half in jest. Somewhere at home I have a box—perhaps two—of notebooks in various states of enthusiasm and abandonment. Some begin with every good intention, then trail off in a half-written entry. Spotty records, false starts, long silences. If there were a prize for inconsistency, I’d be a contender.

And yet—I journal.

I do it the way some people sing in the shower. Not to impress anyone, and certainly not to be judged. It’s not performative. No one is meant to read your journal unless you invite them to, or unless, against all odds, you become outrageously famous and forget to leave instructions after you’re gone. (A cautionary tale in itself.) 

For me, the most functional format is a smallish, one-day-per-page, dated agenda. I like the quiet authority of the page dedicated to the day. If I don’t write one day, there’s no guilt—no blank expanse accusing me of neglect. I simply turn the page. If the next day I feel like slipping in a remembered or reconsidered detail, that’s lovely. If not, that’s fine too.

Some people swear by undated journals. Absolute freedom, they say—you can write as much or as little as you like. I understand the appeal. But I’ve come to appreciate the confines of a single page. The limits force a small act of editing: what matters enough to include, and what can be let go. There’s something clarifying about that choice.

From time to time, if I need inspiration to get back to it, I will flip through the works of a published diarist. Sure, I may not be able to write about lunch with a famous artist or politician, or write insightful, and witty observations, but I’m reminded how simple it is to just write a few lines.*

Size matters: a small notebook slips easily into a bag or coat pocket, but it asks you to be economical. A large one invites extended rumination, at the cost of portability and, sometimes, commitment. Like most things, it’s a trade-off. The right choice is the one you’ll actually use.

My own habit, such as it is, tends to happen at the end of the day. I sit on the edge of the bed and write a few lines before getting under the duvet. I’ve found that this small ritual empties my head of the day’s clutter. It tidies things up. Sleep comes more easily, and occasionally—bonus points—it even improves the quality of dreaming.

As for content: write what’s important to you. What do you want to remember? Anecdotes, encounters, overheard conversations, quotable quotes. At my age, “the other day” could mean last Tuesday or forty years ago. Journaling helps me keep things straight—both for now and for later. Sequence matters. Context matters. Memory, it turns out, is a slippery thing.

Which brings me to the only real rule I believe in.

Do it for yourself.

Because it will be good, and that’s better than perfect. Write without pressure. Miss days. Cross things out. Change formats. Start again. The value isn’t in producing a flawless record of your life, but in giving yourself a quiet place to think, to notice, and to remember.

The rest—like most worthwhile habits—will sort itself out in time.

*two favourites: Harry Graf Kessler and Robertson Davies.