I finally spent time this weekend cracking open and reading a few of my old journals. They sat in a vintage suitcase, deep in my closet. After 20 years, I first opened the suitcase in June, took a photo and ran away. Yesterday, gearing up for my #NaNaWriMo draft I began reading the first journal.
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Asking the oracle why I feel so
poopy. Ha! Good question.
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1988, my first year in New York City, when I was twenty-one, the year I lost my virginity and became pregnant. It was emotional. I knew it would be. Inside the suitcase, I found old Tarot readings I read for friends, which helped me learn the cards, found old poems and unfinished short stories, (very kind) class notes from my poetry teacher, at the New School. One journal left me hanging with an unwritten year! I couldn’t believe the suspense.
I’d forgotten most of that life and found it funny how I kept talking to future me:
“I just have to write through this pain so I can learn from it later".
-- Oh, how I wish I could talk to young Karen. You FOOL! Poor kid. J I laughed and laughed. The voice alone was worth the read. It felt like time travel and such a head-trip. I recommend each of you, writer or not, keep a journal.
I’m sorry I’ve given up the habit. Writing novels and short stories has taken most of my writing mojo. I’ve tried and purchased a journal only to lose the motivation. I’m going to try again, inspired by what I’ve learned reading about the way I saw the world then. My memory alone wouldn’t have been accurate.
I thought about posting an excerpt from a poem I wrote then but I’ll save that for another post.
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