I had several diaries when I was young. I wrote in just one of them, and only a few times a year, if that often. You may be wondering why I bought so many when I never even used them. I didn't quite know at the time, but I was young and much less aware of myself and the motives that drive me. I know why I do it now. I use the present tense here because I still have the same habit. If you walk around my room back home, you will find journal upon journal, and all but one or two of them are completely empty. Even here in my dorm room I have about three of them stashed away. I know I already have more than I could possibly need, but I can't help but buy them.
It's the blank pages. There is something very alluring about a book with no words. They have the potential to be anything. They could be everything. That's what draws me in.
The problem is that this grand, romantic notion then makes me afraid to actually write anything. I don't want to taint the pages with anything trivial or frivolous. All of those crisp, white sheets are perfect, and to mar them with my words almost feels like an atrocity.
At the same time, though, the empty pages are heartbreaking. What good is a book if it never gets the chance to tell a story? Just as I am reluctant to write in them, I hate to leave them void of any words at all. By writing something down, even if it's nothing but blathering, the book gains a voice. Not writing anything at all truly robs it of its potential.
I often wonder if anyone else has this sort of complicated love affair with journals. I imagine most people wouldn't have any issue buying one and filling it quickly with their thoughts and feelings and daily goings-on, and yet it's the silly little writer who can't bring herself to write. I suppose I just care too much about the pages and the words and whether or not I show them enough respect.
Despite all of this, I have recently begun writing in a journal, and I plan to continue writing in it. It really is a great form of catharsis. That much I had already learned from starting this blog. I had never put much stock into it when people said that keeping a journal was good for you. I figured that writing my thoughts would be no different from thinking them, and if it isn't any different, why put forth the effort? But typing all of these posts has made me genuinely evaluate everything, and actually putting things into words allows for a deeper understanding than just thinking in ideas. Maybe it's the writer in me, but I find that writing thoughts down on paper is even better. Taking control of a pen and forming each individual letter gives the words more meaning. It makes them more personal. I love the tangibility of the whole experience.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that writing in any form, whether it be pen and paper or keyboard and blog, is worth your time, and a blank piece of paper—or a white screen with a blinking cursor, as the case may be—deserves to have a purpose.
To wrap things up, I'd just like to say that this love letter to books and pages and words and thoughts is longer and more serious than I originally intended. That's another wonderful thing about writing; once you start, the words take over. The things that come from your own mind can surprise you sometimes.
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