In 1976 I started this journal. And this journal has been active ever since.
Before this, I had made several failed attempts to start a journal. I had several books half filled with journal entries. But, the books themselves didn’t work. The bindings were too tight, and the pages were too small. The last book was too big—ledger size.
Finally, I found the perfect book. It was a composition book, with pages a little smaller than letter size. It had a sewn binding, so it opened flat, which made it easy to write in. It ad 120 pages, so it wasn’t too thick to carry. It became my constant companion. It still is.
Why keep a journal? If you have to ask, as the saying goes, you wouldn’t understand. But, really…
First, it’s a way to tell my story. Who am I telling it to? Me, I guess. You, too, if you’re reading it. But, when you keep a journal for years and years, it becomes a guide to your life. It helps you figure out what’s worth remembering, which takes longer than you’d think.
For me, the journal was more. It was a safe place to write my poems. I had ringbinders full of poems, and I wanted something more secure.
It was also the workbook for first drafts of essays and articles I wanted to write. Dash it off in the journal, then develop it later on the typewriter. (Remember those?)
It was also proof of copyright. If it was in the journal, it was mine.
Of course, there was no worry about copyright if my writing was never published, and mostly, it wasn’t. Sending out submissions was such a tedious bore.
Writing in the journal is also a way to touch home with myself. Sitting in the bar or coffee shop with the journal on the table and a pen in my hand: that’s the true me. It’s my fundamental personal tradition.
The journal has evolved, and the pen has evolved. One day in the seventies, I was riding my motorcycle through a rainstorm. I didn’t notice the journal fall off the rear rack. By the time I discovered it gone, rode back, and discovered it in the gutter, the rain had washed almost all the ink from the pages. This began my search for ink that would stand and a page that could hold that ink.
I discovered dip pens and India ink. (My favorite nib was and still is the Speedball B-6.) I loved the smooth effortless glide of the pen across the paper. I loved the heavy expressive black line of the ink. But, it wasn’t very portable. And it bled through the pages. I kept trying new combinations.
Currently, I’m writing in a bound sketchbook, the “hand•book journal,” with a Parker fountain pen loaded with Quink ink. It’s almost perfect. Almost.
Now that I have over 85 journals on the shelf, I’m thinking of it as the rough draft of my memoir. Why write a memoir? If you have to ask, I’d love to tell you.
RobinCravey 