The Journal Journey - Articles - Zimbio

Symbols of Redemption - Part 3

Tue, 21 May 2008 13:42:09 GMT

posted by TheSatch

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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Symbols of Redemption - Part 2

Mon, 6 May 2008 14:00:56 GMT

posted by TheSatch

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 of discipline, and all the unfinished ideas I couldn’t muster the strength to finish.

And often, those symbols led to guilt over what could have been, but wasn’t.

For some, guilt is a process of recognizing a mistake or flaw, and then taking corrective action. These days, that’s usually how I operate.

But in the Brandon Satrom era of 1997-2003, guilt was usually a prelude to pity, self-doubt and even more guilt.

I still remember those feelings. The enemy was very, very good at putting me in that place.

Any guesses on what would have been the last thing I wanted to do when I was trapped in the guilt cycle?

Write? Journal? Exactly.

Over time, the journaling slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

And then change came With another journal, in June of 2003. But not because there was another new journal, or because of how I obtained it.

Change came because it was time for change. God was at work, as he always had been.

The journal was from a friend. I was a groomsman in his wedding, and as a gift, he gave each of us something chosen with each individual in mind. He knew that I had a passion for writing, and so he presented me with a leather-bound journal.

It was a very thoughtful gift, and I was both honored and touched.

But the truth was that, by this point, I hadn’t written in a journal for years. The guilt cycle was so engrained that I’d almost forgotten it was there.

So I thanked my friend and put the journal aside, not really knowing what I would do with it.

In the days and weeks after, I began to wonder if it was time to try again.

After a month, I knew it was. Somehow, I knew it had to be different this time.

It was time to recover.

So, on July 19, 2003, I opened the cover of that leather-bound journal and wrote two words in large print on the page.

“Rehab Journal”

A journal of rehabilitation. A journal of change and growth. Somehow, I knew even then what was taking place. It was the beginning of another chapter. This one with the themes of completion, restoration and redemption.

This time, I knew it was time to finish. And, by finishing, it was time to start something new.

At the time, I had no clue that finishing would take four years…

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Symbols of Redemption - Part 1

Wed, 1 May 2008 13:21:11 GMT

posted by TheSatch

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, 2000) and my second (which begins in August of 1996 and trails off in silence after April 20, 1997)¹.

And they’re all like this. Overlapping entries. Books with a dozen poems, then nothing. I think one journal even has fifty blank pages before the entries start right back up again.

To be honest, I’m a little ashamed of this fact. As much as I like to brag about journaling for the last twelve years and having all of these books with semi-coherent scribbling, what you don’t see in a picture or by my words is that none of those journals are full. Or almost none. But we’ll get to that.

Why, do you ask²? Mostly because of my personality, I suppose. I’m a starter. I love coming up with new ideas and concepts. I get passionate and excited about these ideas and dive in with abandon.

Then, halfway through my current idea, another shiny bauble comes along and catches my eye.

A new idea! This one is so much better than the last.

I grasp onto this new idea and leave the old flapping in the wind.

This pattern has been pretty consistent in my life. It applies just as much to gadgetry (iPod, Xbox, Kindle) as it does to my creative process.

And it very much applies to my journaling.

I discovered early on in journaling that an empty journal is an intoxicating thing. The pages cry out to be filled with truth and brilliant thought. With observations about life and faith that provide comfort to the writer. They promise catharsis through simple transference of every thought, worry or struggle to the page.

At least, that’s the way I always saw it. A new journal was a promise of genius and creative inspiration. Nevermind that I had one at home or in my backpack with plenty of space for my thoughts. This new journal was better. Somehow.

As a result, when I was younger, I found myself snapping up journals and record books and composition books far faster than I was filling them.³

And journal after journal remained incomplete. With blank pages and discarded ideas. Another symbol of good things unfinished, and my inability to see things though.

And this always seemed to lead to guilt. A lot of guilt. Often, I would look at these journals and see them as tangible proof that God couldn’t use me because I didn’t have the discipline to finish. I would stare at the empty pages and imagine them full of the words God had called me to write, but which I couldn’t.

Thankfully, the story doesn’t end here. There is that one journal I mentioned earlier.

The finished one. And what it represents to me.

But we’ll get to that.

That’s not even overlap. It’s more like one journal was nested inside the other. Does that even make sense?
Let’s assume that you actually did
Even today, I still browse the journal sections at B&B or Borders, though I hardly ever buy. I’ve become too much of a Moleskine snob.

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Memorial Day Musings

Sun, 26 May 2008 11:21:22 GMT

posted by hgoodman

I started a new book last week! Writing the first few pages helped deteriorate the fear crippling me. I stalled and stalled knowing that what comes out on the page will never be what's in my head. It'll never be good enough.

I have to write anyway.

With that in mind, here's a peek into my life:

That's the bulletin board over my desk (which my husband would argue was his desk confiscated by a foreigner). Notice the fairy crown on the left. Needed for inspiration, of course. I don it when my imagination feels particularly unfairy-like. Lots of pics--my parents' prom picture, pics of my niece and my hubby at eight (I think), of the two of us, of my great-aunt teaching me piano basics when I was five. Some of my SPS cards from the Colossians study (week 3's card is in the works). Tickets of my favorites--Sweeney Todd and Rent. Prayer drawings (chalk) on the right--Brenda Gribbin led a group of us through that using images to pray. And smack in the middle, three of the characters from my new novel.

That's Veronica, or Morning Sea. She's the main character. I blurred out part of it because I'm not ready for you to know that yet, although I fear I may not have blurred it enough. Note that Veronica looks a lot like singer/songwriter Kathleen Edwards with purple hair. Huh. Funny how that worked.

Meet Guy and Julianne, who will become Veronica's best friends.

Lot of empty space. I'm still getting to know them.

Random musing #2--tomorrow, I'll talk about Jeremy Begbie's session at the Transforming Culture. It'll be the last in the long, drawn-out series. But the truth is, I love talking about art and theology and art and the Church, so my question is, what would you like to talk about in that space? Do you have questions that you'd like to see the community tackle? Have you been wondering about how to get some artsy stuff going at your church? My ears are open.

Random musing #3--today's the last day to win a $50 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble! Details here.

Random musing #4--yesterday's sermon on Matthew 6, listening to another section from Dark Night of the Soul (I'm working through the book v-e-r-y slowly), and spending most of the weekend reading Embrace Me by Lisa Samson (review up sometime this week) has me thinking about some things. Nothing new, really, but some things I needed to be reminded of. More on this later. Still working this out.

My First Journal

Thu, 1 Feb 2008 22:08:36 GMT

posted by TheSatch

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. I leaned over to pick one up and held it in my hands.

I remember the way it felt. The cover, nothing more than cardboard, felt new and exciting. Inside lay 100 blank blue-lined pages ready to be filled with all of the brilliance my seventeen year-old mind cared to impress upon them¹. I imagined that I would make quick work of this Composition Book, and many more just like it to come.

The price, $3.99 I believe, was just right, so I secured this new treasure with the excitement I usually reserved for book or video game purchases. I carried the journal out of the store with the adrenaline of excitement and possibility. This was the beginning of something significant, I told myself.

Later that night, I marked the composition book as my own. On the first line, I wrote my name, Brandon D. Satrom. On the second, I wrote the following line:

Let the Good Times Roll.

I think I was listening to a BB King song of that same name when I wrote that. Maybe it was someone else, or maybe I wasn’t listening to anything. In any case, it seemed fitting. I thought that the beginning of journaling was the beginning of good times.²

A few days later, I wrote my first entry. January 6th, 1996 to be exact. It was on an American Airlines flight with my sister back to San Antonio, TX (Where we lived) from Boston, MA (Where my father lives). I remember opening the journal with my pen in hand and staring for a few moments at the first page.

No words. Nothing.

I didn’t know what to say. So I figured I’d copy a few lines out of a book I was reading at the time³ as a way to get me started.

That didn’t work, so I drew a squiggly line beneath the quote and a silly title for what was to be my first entry, and started talking about inspiration and ambition before drawing an artist’s rendering of a wormhole and writing what could be called my first poem⁴. The pictures above and below should give you a general idea, just don’t expect larger versions of these photos if you click on them. It’s for your own protection.

And on two pages, that was my first journal entry in my first journal, just over twelve years ago. It wasn’t anything monumental or magical, but it was the beginning of something. Many things actually. Most importantly, it was the beginning of journaling itself, which is my anchor as a writer, whether I am journaling in response to my faith, writing play-by-play recaps of who knows what, madly trying to capture story ideas before I lose them, or scribbling intelligent-sounding things just to see the sound of my own voice, which my wife could tell you I am quite fond of. It’s a little bit of all of that and more for me.

I have much more to say about journaling and it’s purpose in writing, but I’ll save all of those for another day. For now, I just wanted to share another piece of who I am with you.

Thanks for listening.

- B

While writing this, I was listening to “Strip My Mind” by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Technorati Tags: Journaling, Writing, Composition Books

And when I was seventeen, I was convinced that this mind held a lot of brilliance…
Who am I kidding? This is a silly title for a journal. I still laugh at it when I see it, but you should see what I put on the cover of my second composition book. For another day…
The Social Contract by Jean-Jacques Rousseau… I’m not kidding. This is also another story for another day
but not by me