Memory, journaling, and summoning a genie
Young Man Writing, 1852 oil on canvas by Meissonier.
I've always worried that I have a bad memory, as I seem to remember less detail from my childhood than other people normally do. I can only describe any remembered incidents vaguely, and more in terms of symbols and words rather than emotional or sensory detail; an idea of a birthday party with faceless guests rather than memories of people's greetings, the gifts they gave me, or what I felt or thought at the time.
After enough time spent journaling, I came to understand writing as remembering; each retelling deepens the story and strengthens the memory. Writing is the best way I've found not only to remember and make sense of experience, but to even attend to them in the first place. Knowing that I may want to write about it later on makes me naturally observe everything a little more closely, and to think in terms of mental notes, words and images.
I just wish I had taken better care of all the journal notebooks I've used, on and off, over the years. I also wish that I had begun putting more time and effort into journaling earlier in my life, and thus accumulated a richer and more fascinating record of all those lost eras and selves.
(The latest version of a poem on memory I’m still trying to write.)
For about a year now I've been journaling regularly and more heavily: a thousand words a day, about five days a week. This is my longest and most intense stretch of journaling to date, and as a direct result not only do I remember things more easily, on good days life also feels more eventful and more integrated into a meaningful story.
An even more surprising discovery is that writing something down sometimes in fact reshapes my experience: journaling can alter my point of view, improve my mood, or provide crucial insight. My journal had always been my confidante and an eager listener to my stories, but now it's as if I'm able at times to use words as a way to channel some hidden and subconscious part of my psyche I otherwise wouldn't be aware of, let alone be in touch with.
Sitting at my desk and facing the blank page is often still intimidating, but the mere possibility of once more happening upon that mysterious genie urges me on. What else can writing tell me about my self and reveal about the world?
This essay is part of a month-long series of 30 essays.