Every Day I Write the Books
Part 5: One day, it's certain, I will no longer write the books
“In a soldier’s stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not that I’d become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
My existence led by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.”
—Bob Dylan, “My Back Pages”
“The first sentence that will be about your end will be written by someone other than you.”
Not sure who said that, so I’ll claim it since I have no lede for this final part on my life in diaries, journals, notebooks, and sketchbooks.
Admittedly it’s a real Nothingburger, but that’s because one of the great pleasures of writing is the feeling of being in control. You are thinking—speaking in your head—and committing all that to paper or computer screen. When you’re gone, well, you’re gone. Lights out, goodnight Gracie.
Countering Bob Dylan’s “existence led by confusion boats,” a habit like writing in a diary or journal develops your mind, tamps down the confusion, and one day—poof! like magic! you’re sitting inside a brick shithouse made out of your own words.
Most people don’t instantly glom on to habits like that.
As Joyce Carol Oates said in the New York Times interview I quoted from in the last post, “People are seduced by the beauty of the close-at-hand, and they don’t have the discipline or the predilection or the talent, maybe, to say: ‘I’m not going to waste my time on Twitter. I’m going to have five hours and work on my novel.’ If you did that every day, you’d have a novel.”
She goes on:
There’s lots of reasons that people have for not doing things. Then the cats are gone, the children move away, the marriage breaks up or somebody dies, and you’re sort of there, like, ‘I don’t have anything.’ A lot of things that had meaning are gone and you have to start anew. But if you read Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses,’ Ovid writes about how, if you’re reading this, I’m immortal. You see that theme in Shakespeare’s sonnets: You’re reading this, so I’m still alive. In fact, they’re not alive, they’re gone, but while they were alive, they did have that extra dimension of their lives. That is not nothing.
“That is not nothing.” Huh.
So, if “not nothing,” where goes all this “something”?
How does one deal with a decision made at 13 that ends up becoming a towering mountain of memorabilia?
And, in short, how is it useful?
Rediscovering the Past—and the Present
This early summer of 2023 was probably the first time (at least in a long while) that I’ve been fully “hands-on” into the diaries, journals, and such. That’s created the opportunity to do some broader thinking about the practice of journal writing and what it means—at least to me.
For example this morning I wrote in the 2023 journal, with my fountain pen, and noticed I felt distracted. I put the pen down and pulled out a “to-do” list for the weekend, then felt guilty for not writing here on Substack. To pacify the attendant anxiety, I told myself, All in good time. Everything will get its due.
That was a wise check-in, and I was able to finish the day’s entry. Suddenly I felt a deep, emotional wave of satisfaction—accomplishment—you know, that feeling after making your bed in the morning, brushing your teeth, or doing a useful turn for someone.
Having a place for the finished books has been another stroke of accomplishment—the damn things have a home, at least for now. I noticed how I’ve spent little time combing through them, so I couldn’t really tell you what’s there without referencing a date or memory and trying to recall what I thought about a particular experience. But just the idea of knowing I could discover (or, essentially, rediscover) the experience is very comforting.
The journal entries are not edited; that is, I write until I feel I’m done writing and put it away. Sometimes, if I’ve reread something I’ll note changes—such as pasting in the 2017 journal entries and reading them as I went—but the majority of entries are unedited. I’m cool with that.
It is what it is.
And that’s as it should be.
Creating Solitude
Last Saturday, August 5, 2023, I actually wrote in my journal twice. It’s rare but occasionally happens: Once in the morning, and again in the afternoon or evening.
Then something occurred to me.
I had been feeling lonely. Writing in the journal made me feel better.
That 13-year-old boy, back in the early 1970s? I realized he was lonely, too; he wrote in his diary to feel less so. From that young age I learned that a diary or journal is a relationship. It would be there for me if I would be there for it. Loneliness then transforms into solitude—which is a beautiful experience. I wish more people would discover that; I truly believe it would save folks from a world of self-inflicted pain.
Sometimes I’ll do what I call “The Oracle.”
We can try that right now.
It starts with something random, a habit I developed when I was underemployed and out on the street looking for work between 2013-2016. At bus stops and street corners, I’d look for coins people had left. Yesterday I found a penny and when I got home I inspected the date: 1978. Yesterday was August 4, 2023. What did I write in my diary on Aug. 4, 1978?
Let’s consult The Oracle.
Folks, we have a winner! It was what they used to call a “red-letter day.”
The entry in full:
Friday, August 4, 1978
The day began clear and warm, and everyone knew, but rarely said, ‘Well, this is the last day!’ I think, maybe, we were all too excited about another whole and wonderfully challenging day. I spent one part of the day talking with Kelvin by the back part of the office, by the Canteen, just after it closed up for the afternoon. Ruth (Steve “Boogie” Leo’s sister and Jeanne and Debbie’s counselor) and Rhonda (back from the clinic and feeling better) talked to us, we helped take Rhonda down to the waterfront; I took a few pictures as it was such a nice day; later, I talked to Kristie—scratch that I got my dates mixed up—Kristie liked my poetry (I had brought a copy of ‘Over Wings and Words’ up to Shamineau and we also talked about Deb and I). One time that afternoon Bob Nelson and I walked up to the playing field and watched a soccer game—guys cabin versus the girls—I was taking some pictures and Jeanne and Deb came by and talked to us for a while. I also shot some pictures by the archery range. Well there was much free time after supper but then it was time for Chapel. Deb, Jean, Kristie and I sat together…
—Suddenly I realized I’d written about it over at the WordPress blog Completely in the Dark. You can get the bird’s eye view of the entry there, within a two-part blog post with the story beginning here and our entry above concluding it here. It was my forthcoming high school senior year and the last chance I’d ever be able to attend summer camp, where I’d made a lot of dear friends.
Wow.
—Laughing to myself that even in that moment 45 years ago “I got my dates mixed up.”
Time is a goofball.
Once you get wind of that fact, you’re golden.
The Future of the Past
Now is where we have to put all this stuff away and get on with other things. I’m done woolgathering and itchin’ for what’s next.
That includes returning to Completely in the Dark (left off writing about the year 1993), more publishing here on Substack, and a long-haul creative project that will take me on a research trip to the UK this autumn.
So what’s on the wish list for the future of journal writing and all the memorabilia? Who’s gonna take these historical artifacts when I die? Anyone?
They’re free for the asking—I lived the life, you get the paperwork. I could will them to my nephews, since I don’t have a spouse or partner or children of my own. I could will them to a younger friend. Or donate them to a university or learning institution dedicated to journal studies. I’m warm to that idea.
Hey, you tell me.
And yes, throughout this whole series, I’ve been thinking about you—yeah, you readers. Over and above my diaries, my journals, my ephemeral scribblings, I’ve been curious about how you’ve managed to bring a sense of purpose to your lives or maybe struggled with keeping a journal or mulled it over and just gave up—or continue to write as best you can, day in and day out.
While digging through a box of family photos and memorabilia, and found this Christmastime note my late mother wrote when she was a child. The handwriting, in pencil, is faded after nearly 75 years:
It reads:
Dear Santa
I want a Doll Bath and Dressing Table and a Coal Truck and a Merry Go aRound and I want a Croquet. Jackie Adams
Once, a human being picked up a pencil and set down in words the desires of the person writing with it. A simple act, but filled with passion and energy, even after many years have passed.
(I miss you, Mom.)
Your writing is more valuable to others than you could ever imagine. And while you can’t know who will write the words that will describe your exit from life, you can have a hand in the trajectory of the future by how you spend your energy and attention in the present.
The future isn’t ours to see, maybe, as the song goes.
In the meantime, of course I’ll keep writing. Hells bells, Joyce Carol Oates is now 85 years old and spinning around New York City like a literary tornado.
What can I do? Stop writing altogether?
Now that would be stupid, right?
Right?
Thanks for reading! If you’re not already a StoryShed’s Substack subscriber, I hope you’ll consider becoming one. It’s great you’re here.