I completed another journal this morning.
There is always something comforting about filling in the last page of a journal - a completion of an empty book (this for the perfectionist in me). I seem to start counting down about halfway through any given journal, for a reason that is beyond me - perhaps anxious to fill it in?
I have journal entries going back to 1991, and writings beyond that (not specifically journal entries) going back to 1989. I fear they can be rather spotty - the great thing about journals, rather than diaries, is that journals can be left aside for days and re-entered without the dreaded feeling of "missing a day". True, this means you miss entries and recording thoughts on a daily basis, but at least you write.
I am undecided what to do with them. I honestly hate reading things that I have written for a reason unknown to me, perhaps internal criticism. Do I eventually transpose them into electronic form? Do I continue to gather them - in 15 years, including travel journals, I don't even have one shelf's worth - another 40 years should give me 2.5 shelves?
How does one effectively use the recordings and musings of one's past?
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