journal 2 and other missing pieces of myself
So my boss gave me a magazine clipping a few weeks ago. I think it was right before we went on vacation. And it was about this woman who wrote a book about how her mental health impacted her work as a entrepreneur (a word I can't even spell). And we were going on vacation and I needed a book to read, so I downloaded it to my Kindle app and I've been reading it a bit at a time.
When.
All the sudden.
I was OVERCOME with the urge to write my novel. A memoir I started 5 years ago. I went to open Scrivener (the app I'd been using to write and organize my work) and of course it wouldn't open. EEEEEKKK!!! I've lost all my work!!! Turns out it just won't work on my current operating system.
So of course you have to buy the NEW version. Luckily there's a 30 day free trial. I wasn't sure I was 100% committed to writing again yet and I wasn't quite ready to shell out the 50 bucks to buy the app. So I downloaded the free trial and crossed my fingers that it would import my old file. Whew. It did.
So I read what I had written so far. Honestly, I hadn't gotten as far as I thought I had. Hmm. Oh well. I'll just start where I left off.
Here was my initial plan of attack. 5 years ago I gathered every journal I could find from senior year of high school to present. I grabbed some post-it notes and flipped to the first and last pages of the journal. Wrote the dates on the post it, slapped it on the cover, and went on to the next one. Then I put them in order. It seemed like a good place to start. And it still does. I mean what else do I have?
So my Scrivener app is broken down into folders. A folder for each journal. When I stopped the project in 2015, I was in the middle of folder 2: 9/9/2004-2/2/2005. So I go down to the basement and start sifting through the journals on the bookshelf. I CANNOT find journal 2. So then I'm like..."well it must be in my room. I was writing in my room, so I'm sure it's somewhere in there." So I tear apart my room. Or at least the parts where I thought it would be. I found a few more journals to add to the pile...ones I've accumulated since I first began this venture. But no journal 2. I was broken hearted.
I then went back into the basement and started re-organizing the journals because they weren't in order anymore. And I just began to cry. Because there were holes. Massive holes. Years. Some years were journals that were just straight up lost. Some years were journals I burned. And some were years I just couldn't bring myself to write. Maybe not always in years, but at least important chunks.
I have no record of the first time I broke my hip, the horribleness of my breakup with Andy, my entire sophomore year, or the beginning of the fall of 2006 when my life finally completely shattered to pieces. And that's just my teenage years. I have bits. My memory is in crumbs. But the bulk of the story? Gone forever.
And who will want to read a story like that?
Devestation.
Yet I'm still convinced it's a story worth writing.
And I can only hope it's one worth reading.
So I started. I wrote about the loss of journal 2 and just picked up where I left off. Which actually can't even be called journal 3. It's a stack of 17 pieces of paper torn from a notebook and paper clipped together. It's 2 entries and one isn't dated, and I really can't tell which one comes first.
My book is a narrative. It's kind of a summary of the highlights of each journal, interspersed with excerpts from the journal itself. But those 17 pages? I typed the whole thing out. In 2 entries. Flipped them around a few times. I'm not sure which one I'll keep. Or if I'll keep either of them. Or if I'll keep them both.
But the reason I have them in there for now is because it's a reminder. That even at age 18 I wanted to write a novel. I knew I had a story to tell. And at that point my story involved only teenage love and a broken hip.
That girl had no idea.
But I went from typing up those 17 pages and dove into reading the next journal. And the next. And the next. And the next. I read for hours by the fire pit. Then on the couch. And then I said enough.
I can't get too far ahead of myself. I need to have a plan. I can't get sucked into the drama, the illness, or the pain of the past. It's infectious. Almost addictive, those journals. So I think it's a good idea to read a journal or 2 ahead of my writing. Just so I have some direction. But no more.
There's something cathartic about the writing process. Particularly with these journals. I have cried. I mean like boogers seeping through tissues crying. But I have seen and grown to love and care for this girl. Even though sometimes I want to knock her across the head with a 2x4.
I've written more in the past 24 hours than I did when I first began. We're at the first big missing chunk. I'm pulling my hair out trying to remember the highlights and lowlights of a year and a half of hell. Without losing my sanity in the process.
I think a lot of authors write the forward of their book after they have actually finished their novel. And who knows, I might do that, too. But 5 years ago, I started with the forward. And it goes something like this:
“There are moments in which I’ve wondered whether or not the journey I’m about to embark upon is a foolish one. All I have is journals. A lifetimes of scribbles....
The words contained in these journals are sure to shake the innermost portions of my soul. Some are written in pen and others in crayon. My writing utensil itself gave a snapshot of life in those moments. A pen on a good day. A marker when things got rough. A crayon when that’s the only thing they’d let me have....
My life is told in a variety of colors. Pictures. Words torn from magazines and plastered on pages. Quotes that spoke to me.
The pile [of journals] is overwhelming....
I’m troubled. While the pile is large, there are far too few books on the floor of my bedroom.
My first instinct is to run back down to the basement. Sift through more shelves. I’m looking for more pieces of myself. But they’re gone. Perhaps forever.
Maybe this project was foolish after all. Who would want to read a story like the one I’m about to tell? One in which the most pivotal pieces of the plot are not lost, but missing entirely? I can barely stand such a truth myself. What would compel another to take interest in such a tragedy?
But the holes tell stories of themselves, I’m told. Captivating and passionate tales.
The story you’re about to hear is a foreign one, even to me. My memories were stolen from me years ago. These books are all I have and they tell the story of a girl. I’m told the story is a great one. The girl is one I think I’d like to know.
My plan is to read each journal and record my journey through its pages. I want to understand this character and her life. I’d like to see her as she is. Know her. Enjoy her. Get lost in the pages of her soul and come out with compassion for her. Love. Peace with her past and hope for her future.”
Gosh darn it, now I'm crying again. "Peace with her past and hope for her future." I think I'll shell out the 50 bucks after all.
(And start saving my pennies for a kick ass editor, cuz boy am I going to have a hard time finding one willing to wade through this hot mess...)