The Journal Journey

Here I am again. Starting another empty volume. Sitting, drinking coffee. Wondering what will become of my life. - July 19, 2003 This post is part 2 in a series entitled Symbols of Redemption. For part 1, click here. For part 2, click here. On July 19, 2003, I began my eleventh journal with the words above. “Here I am again.” They were words of recognition… “Starting another empty volume.” … of repetition… “Sitting, drinking coffee.” … tied to a dream of being a writer in a noisy... Read Full Story

This post is part 2 in a series entitled Symbols of Redemption. For part 1, click here. Last week, in part one of this series, I talked about my many incomplete journals. I admitted that I’m pretty good about coming up with new ideas and starting new things, but that I often have trouble carrying those ideas to completion. Because this is so much a part of my personality, my journals became symbols of incompleteness beyond the blank pages themselves. They were symbols of brokenness, a lack... Read Full Story

I have journals. Lots of them. Mostly in a pile on top of the bookcase in my office. Of course, you already know I have journals. I’m certain I’ve mentioned this before. But what you don’t know is that none of these journals are full. Except for one. But we’ll get to that. The rest of my journals have almost as many blank pages as full ones. Some are more empty than full. Many of them overlap in time, like my first journal (which has dated entries from January, 1996 to December... Read Full Story

She pops the red flag up, glancing over her shoulder as she does. They all do. She looks at the sky and presses the palms of her hands to her eyes. It's Jack I feel bad for. A postal worker in life, he didn't know he'd be required to continue his courier services by death. When she's gone, I collect the letters, one from her to "Mrs. Virginia Anders" and two others. Mrs. Anders is her mom. Or is it was? I'm never sure on these things. I know this because this is her third letter to... Read Full Story

In January of 1996, I walked into a grocery store in Shrewsbury, MA with my father and my sister. I was seventeen . I don’t recall where exactly the store was, why we where there, or what we bought while there, save one item. The first journal I ever owned. I remember walking down the aisle with the school supplies and glancing down at the notebooks lined up on display. I looked quickly over the spirals and spotted the familiar black and white marbled cover of PenTab Composition Books... Read Full Story