Who Says You Can't Go Home

Writing is going well. I have a lot of short vignettes that have nothing to do with any of my works in progress. They are part of my writing recovery. And they are slowly sparking the inspiration deep within me.

I'm also journaling. I used to journal all the time. I always had some type of paper journal, something with unlined pages and a soft, leather cover. Something I could slip into my bag or backpack and write in anywhere. I would work out my fears and anxieties within those pages, knowing that they were for me and me alone. It was safe. It didn't judge, nor did it try to offer ill timed advice.

I stopped journaling a few years into marriage once I started working full time. I was in full time school for my master's degree, working full time and was utterly exhausted every step of the way. I had no time to think, let alone journal. Funny, it was during this time I found myself writing fiction. Apparently I didn't want to deal with my own life so I made up fictional lives I could torture instead.

Writing fiction became my journal. At first, what I wrote had autobiographical qualities loosely disguised in a thin veneer of fiction. I worked through some deeply hurtful issues within those first stories. I was able to address certain things while still remaining slightly apart from them.  It was a balm and it helped me keep my sanity through a very chaotic time in my life.

I think a part of me missed my journal. Writing fiction instead of journaling was like moving away from my home town to the big city. It was exciting, different and yet had some of the same qualities I loved about that home town.  But even in the big city a girl can long for home.

Fiction is wonderful, but sometimes you need to focus on your life in this precise moment. Sometimes you need to chronicle events and decisions so you can look back at them and remember. And grow.

I'm writing fiction again. Some of it is still somewhat autobiographical in nature. Most of it is wonderful fantastical. I'm not trying to live my life and my issues on those pages. What a relief. That is for my journal. I haven't found that wonderful leather bound book to write in...yet, but I'm not letting that be an excuse. Last year, it would have been. I have an old notebook, worn and plain, but it's got paper and I have a pen and as soon as I start writing the pages become filled with my every thought. It's a little like coming home.