As you know (if you’ve followed this blog for any length of time), I love journals. I love journals like cats like mice . . . or pregnant women like ice cream . . . or men like remote controls.
It’s something I have zero control over. It’s nature and nurture rolled into one.
But this is where you come in. Growing up, my mom kept a journal in which she recorded short, pithy insights about my brother and me. She had one journal for me (see the dusty, blue book above) and one for my brother. The entries are all short (think 50 words or less), and they are dated.
I am thankful she did this. Reading through the book is a great (albeit embarrassing at times) experience. I can read about situations involving loved ones who are gone. I can laugh at ridiculous things I said or did. I can verify with the accuracy of a neurosurgeon when I knew I was going to be a writer (4 and 7/8 years old).
I intend to keep a journal like this for my son.
Whether or not you are “a writer” consider keeping one of these books for you and yours. You’ll be glad you did.