My journals have all been written for my pleasure. My first journals, on 3″ x 5″ cards, I filed by date in recipe boxes. Each card was a record of the day, right down to the date and weather. I suppose at some point I realized there was no value in reading them and as such, provided no value in writing them, and I stopped.
The next journals I wrote were for record-keeping. They depict snippets of my children. Fleeting, wonderful and terrible moments in a child’s upbringing as only a parent can tell them. Their purpose was to keep the memories safe. I take them out and read them now and then. They always bring smiles, tears, and laughter. So many years, wished away in weariness and impatience!
I later kept writings of my feelings. It turned out it was a place for me to vent. I needed to work out thoughts and feelings I wouldn’t — no, couldn’t! — share with anyone else. When I discovered someone had read them, I burned them all and hadn’t written anything until I started this blog in July of 2012.
This experience has been an extraordinary therapy to me. Obliged by my edict to present messages of healing and constructive content, thinking in a positive way encourages me to seek out the virtues of my day-to-day interactions.
I write from my own experiences. And while I am not an author of fiction, depending on how my perspective serves me, it may just as easily be fiction after all. But it is as near to the truth as I can get and much nearer the truth than if I had never written at all.