First words

"Droll" is not elementary school vocab

I remember scouring the cover of this journal–trademarked 1999 for exclusive Scholastic Book Fair distribution–wondering where all the other feelings were. Where my feelings were. I had high hopes for “droll” and actually remember asking an adult for the definition. The answer didn’t satisfy.

I was 6 years old, very much still learning how to read and spell and hold a pencil (a technique that eludes me today), but I somehow knew this was my medium. Though the outside of my journal was limited by the chubby cheeriness of those cartoon children, the inside, the beautiful blank pages in between, could hold more of me.

This is my very first journal entry, the opening lines of my life.

Dear Journal, It looks like a storm is coming. What should I do about it. I know I can’t do anything about it. Love your friend Emma.

Now, I am 26. I graduated at the top of my class with a BA in English; I’ve made a living as a journalist, editor, and writer for a handful of years now; I claim a few creative publications in small journals; and yet no qualification or accomplishment comes close to the feeling of taking something from my mind and writing it down. Since I have learned the tool of language, I have slowly read myself into meaning through my own artifacts.

My hypergraphic tendencies have waxed and waned over the years, of course. Some years (7th grade, for some unfortunate reason) I meticulously noted, class period by class period, the drudgery and drama of middle school life. Other years (sophomore year, high school, my first boyfriend) I barely wrote at all, so giddily in love. Senior year of college, I vowed to write at least 14 lines on my phone each night before I slept (I was in my sonnet phase). Even on my least lucid nights, I got something down. I kept the practice up for a while and still go back to that journal occasionally, the folder now pushing 1,200 entries.

I do not write beautifully or even legibly most of the time. I do not bullet journal or have a consistent morning pages routine, I don’t do this for self-improvement. This kind of writing, I’ve recently decided, is something that happens to me, a bit beyond my control.

As the blank pages of my current journal dwindle, I’ve recently found myself seeking a new way to say who I am in writing. Social media disappoints, poetry is slow-going, but a newsletter is a more expansive stage, a less precious thing.

So join me in my small cottage, a renovated sawmill nestled among the pungent mushroom houses of southeast Pennsylvania, to mill our minds and write about ourselves, for ourselves. This isn’t English class, there are no formal prompts, and I can’t promise a revolution in your mental health for the practice of picking up a pen. But I can remind you, as I’ve needed to be reminded many times myself, that everyone who writes is a writer, and there’s always room for more.

Here, I’ll share excerpts from my personal journals and reflect on what’s been invigorating my writing practice lately, as well as new modes of journaling that might inspire your creativity. I’m fascinated by the ways people capture their lives, and I’m really excited to hear what your journaling/creative practice looks like these days. Growing up, I often cited “newspaper advice lady” as a dream job so I’d also love one day to anonymously (and ethically) share excerpts of your journals too. Sans the advice probably—you’ll see my dirt soon enough.

For now, welcome to the mill. The weather’s rolling in fast tonight, a perfect summer storm brewing. I’m a different kind of anxious than I was in my girlhood, but at least now I don’t need to ask what to do as the thunder roars and the air grows heavy and humid. I come inside and sit by the window and write.