On March 30, I decided that I would fill up a blank journal before the end of April. Today, on its last page, I wrote my farewell. A previously empty book is now filled with my words.
I had several goals in filling this journal. Mostly, I wanted to see if I had anything left to say and hoped to discover if I could sustain interest in my own writing for the duration of the month.
I did fine. Not only did I write daily, I wrote during nearly every available moment. My journal isn't filled with poems or essays or much of anything in particular. Mostly ramblings, ponderings, and copious musings about all the things I could and/or should be doing.
It also has a lot of examples of what self-help types would call "negative self-talk."
Something unusual -- I haven't read much while engaged in this writing experiment. The exception is Ted Kooser's The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets, a book I picked up on a whim at the library while browsing the "writers' section."
As you can see, my writing is no longer a solitary endeavor; I welcome and appreciate canine company. Too bad it took me so long to discover this!
