I don't know when I started writing to myself, but I know I was under the age of 15 because I clearly remember getting my first journal at that age and I began writing to myself more efficiently. Before I owned a journal I would simply write notes to myself and tell myself what I would do, what I have done, what I wanted to do, and so forth If anyone found my letters and read them they would probably just have laughed; I never really cared if anyone ever found my writings. To this day I leave the latest journal(s) out on the table next to the chair I sit in (with the dog) and I couldn't care one bit if they picked up the book and read out loud each and every word I have written - - even the embarrassing words.
Why don't I care if my secrets are told? I learned a very very long time ago never to write out anything you couldn't publish in the papers and these days I'd have to amend that medium to say "Never write down anything you couldn't post online". The way I see it now, as has always been, I think my words are my words. If I said it I must have meant it. If you don't agree with me you can stuff it, and if you don't like what I wrote, you can stuff it twice. I say all sorts of mean, nasty, rude, and even crude things at times. I lay it out there, and I'm not afraid to be bold or blunt! If I don't like what you're doing I'm apt to write about it, and God knows I don't mind handing you my journal with a scone and double-dog dare you to read the words for yourself.
Over the years, the many many years, I have written countless numbers of books. To ask me how many books I've written would be an impossible task if one considered each 250-300 page journals I've written. I write one every 2-3 months I suppose. In the early years I used composition notebooks. In 1997 I had the extreme misfortune to have lost literally 12 full years of my writings when my bastard ex-husband decided to destroy my work; I've never recovered from it, and I won 't fully be able to forgive him really. I have given the matter to God, but I know I hold that scar with an impassioned hatred toward him that only Jesus can remove. Like scar tissue, it has grown over, but it is not gone.
Since that time I've written more, so many more, and I don't know exactly how many books I've written. I have over 140 journals. We'll say that. I think the best and easiest thing to say is that anyone who wanted to "get to know me" could pick up a book or two and pretty much realize I'm one of the most boring subjects known to have lived; at least according to the pages before them. I write about feeding the horses, about going on trips, about working, about lying to my kids, and about my prayer life. More recently, the past two years, I've written extensively about a man I've prayed for and how my feelings became way too personal for him. I created fantasy, dreams, would-be's and all sorts of nonsense. Words that never ever should have been written, but then again, I can't pretend I'm not who I am, can I? Just as human as the next woman, I suppose.
My journal is perhaps the closest thing to a confession that anyone would ever find. The only thing I don't disclose in the books is where the bodies are buried. Why would I do that? Why would I give away the very secrets that could keep me locked away forever and perhaps jeopardize my chances of ever being allowed a pen in my hand! (I hear they only allow No. 2 pencils without erasers in prison, and God knows, I'll need that damned eraser!) Ha! There I go--fantasizing again! THERE ARE NO BODIES! I kill people all the time in my mind, but I don't really do it. I'm a freaking WRITER for goodness sakes. Anyone who knows me knows that, and if you don't know me, you wouldn't know that I can't even watch something bloody online or on film. My kids won't let me watch certain shows due to the fact that they know I'll be up with nightmares! (I've never seen The Passion, but I do love me some Jim Caviezel)
This morning when I sat down to pick up that learned and glorious book of mine, I decided to speak to it rather than just write in it. I told it how I deeply appreciated it keeping my secrets and openly forgave it if anyone should coax it into sharing them; no worries. I would sit properly with my tea and let you read the words back to me if you thought you could actually decipher my poor (and increasingly growing worse) handwriting. It has REALLY suffered and I can't explain why. Often times I think about what another graphy (graphologist) would say about my handwriting; I know I think twice at times when I glance back over it. I'm the worst right now. I need to work on that. Maybe I'll make a point to be more...more...diligent. Probably not. I'll likely just keep smushing the words together and dropping the letters as if I am in some sort of hurry when I'm not.
No doubt tomorrow's entry will reflect this blog, and maybe what I dream tonight. Sometimes I lie about what I dream just because I can. Other times I write exactly what I dreamed and wonder about what it really means. Mostly however, I just write and I tell myself what I'm going to do, what I have done, what I want to do, and maybe who I would love to roll about the woodlands with - - hint, he's usually Scottish, naked (maybe still clutching his kilt in his hands and untying his black boots). He's bearded, plays guitar, and speaks only Gaelic. I don't really understand much of what he's saying, but then again, I really don't give a damn. Nope. He's getting a bit more gray in the temples these days, but he's always the same man; my lover. Journals are really good secret keepers and if my mind's private tales are ever discovered that's OK, too - - they are the things imaginations are meant to know and experience.
A good friend told me she would never write anything down because she is fearful that someone who she wrote about would find it, perhaps read it, and know her true feelings. That's exactly why I leave my journals out. A person may not want me saying what I want to say to their face. Perhaps reading it in a book on a table (when they know they really have no business reading it) would be a lighter way to find out the truth. When I am gone my books will remain. My story will be told by my own hand. I can't think of another more genuine way to say "This is me. Love me. I'm the only me I could ever be." Heaven will be my final destination, and though I don't know if I'll ever pen a word there, I know I'll find a kilt on the ground just outside my doorstep and maybe one or two laces untied of some fairly dirty black boots. Heaven is heaven, after all.
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