Last month, inspired by a chapter in Shauna Niequist’s Bittersweet: Thoughts on Change, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way, my book club shared things we don’t do. There was a triumphant gleefulness in the way we declared ourselves free of the things that make our lives heavy: Megan doesn’t watch scary movies. Ever. Colleen does not read science fiction or fantasy–do not try and talk about Tolkien with this woman. Seriously.
I don’t do diaries. I don’t do journals, either. During the years before I learned this about myself, I purchased some truly lovely blank books with the intent to fill them faithfully. Each journal, dutifully begun, accrued only a handful of entries. I am introspective to the nth degree, but I was never able to make daily journaling a habit. Re-reading various attempts has prejudiced me against further action. Free-writing, I’ve discovered, finds me maudlin, and I have no desire to revisit the worst version of a particular moment. Better by far that I should forget and smile than remember and be sad.