Symbols of Redemption - Part 3

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 café–coffee in hand–watching the world swirl and dance and provide input to the pen…

“Wondering what will become of my life.”

… almost undone by a fear of never becoming the person I was called to be.

This was my first journal. My first real journal. The rest were just practice, more sketchbooks and scratchpads than a binding of mirrors for every day of my life.

This one was different, probably because I was different. Or maybe I was different and ready.

Or maybe I was no different, and it was just time.

The words “Rehab Journal,” which I wrote on the inside cover, came from that first entry:

Maybe the purpose of this journal should be REHAB. To make me a writer again. A novel idea, I think. And one I shall try. In fact, I will make a deal with my rehab journal that I will write in these pages as often as I can until its pages are filled. If, after I have marked every inch of paper herein, I don’t feel like the writer God wishes to make me, I’ll give it up forever. Until then, I cannot put off the discovery of my life’s true journey another day, minute or second.

So I began writing, as often as I could, in keeping with my promise. And as nice as those words above may sound, I cannot say that I wrote every day for six months, closed the journal and gave a Tiger Woods fist-pump to the cafe full of people wondering if they should get their coffee to-go. Instead:

In 2003, I filled 68 pages.

In 2004, I filled 27.

In 2005, 12.

After two-and-a-half years, there wasn’t a good trend in the making. It’s a good thing I didn’t do any of these page-counts until later.

But something was better than nothing, even in 2005, where I averaged a single page per month. Besides, the deal wasn’t done until the journal was full.

So I kept going.

In 2006, I wrote 59 pages.

Then, In 2007, I wrote 75.

And on October 25, 2007, with an early morning audience of one dog and one cat, I finished that journal.

The next day, I started another one.

Five days later, I started the next phase of my journey by starting a novel.

Thirty days after that, I finished the first draft.

Six months later, my next journal is almost full.

Today, I am journaling, blogging and writing nearly every single day.

But none of those things, as things themselves, really matter. I certainly am not trying to brag. I didn’t say the novel was any good, after all.

It doesn’t even really matter what exactly changed from 2005 to 2006. Something or things did change, even if I cannot name them all. Some switch was flipped, though I was likely not the one to flip it.

What does matter is what I wrote on the very last line of my Rehab Journal–in big block letters–after four years completing the deal I made on the first pages:

I am a writer.

Those words summarized my journey. Not of four years, but of twelve, from the moment I wrote my first words in January of 1996.

The internal doubts and debate over my calling? Closed with the back cover of that journal.

So then what of the things? What of that black leather bound journal, the black Moleskine I write in today, the 250 pages of my novel-in-progress and the half-dozen short stories I’ve written since?

These are good things. Things that I smile to think about. But in themselves, they cannot be a source of pride, because it is not by my strength that they are true.

But they do count for something. A lot, actually.

They are symbols of redemption.

My redemption.

Symbols of Redemption - Part 1

Symbols of Redemption - Part 2

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