I have never thought that journals are stupid — though calling it a “journal” is embarrassing and so is “diary” — in fact, I’ve actually had one for most of my life. But my preliminary “journals” were all about how my brothers irritated me, how badly I wanted boobs, and stupid things like what I had for dinner. After I got my first training bra, my entries focused around my angsty, depressed teen years where I would write about how much I hated my mom (sorry mom), why I couldn’t open up emotionally to my boyfriend, and those strange debilitating thoughts that haunted me through my early ’20s. Following my college years, I only turned to my book-which-I-refuse-to-call-a-journal when I was upset, sad, or depressed — writing entries focused around what I was(n’t) doing with my life, why so-and-so dumped me, and why certain friendships just weren’t worth maintaining.
But who’s to say that a notebook full of personal thoughts should be used solely for negative-nancy moments? Anne Frank kept things pretty light under the circumstances, so why shouldn’t I?
As I look upon the new year and all the changes to come, I plan to set aside 20-30 minutes a day to document everything from the mundane to the extraordinary, the positive to the negative, in my painfully pink booky book book.
I’ve never been one to make new years resolutions (mainly because I’m so hungover on January 1st that there’s no way I’m keeping that “no carbs for one month” declaration), but I think a daily entry in my handy dandy notebook is a good way to start. Thanks Bridget Jones for the idea.