Ramblings: The Importance of Writing a Journal

You could ask yourself the question of whether it really is that important to write a journal. Especially nowadays when you can keep an ongoing collection of words and images and videos of your everyday life via social media sources such as Facebook, Instagram, Vine and other. If writing a journal is just tantamount to keeping track of what happened to you on a weekly or daily basis, then I suppose it isn’t that necessary, or important, not with all the other mediums we now have at our fingertips. I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently, mainly after reading the new Bridget Jones installment (Mad About the Boy – and yes, Helen Fielding hasn’t lost any of her talent or wit… I laughed and cried loudly all the way through it); and then randomly watching a movie called Stuck In Love, where a writer father makes his two kids write in their journals on a regular basis, as a way to train them to record their experiences and to be passionate about writing, just as he is. Both very different forms of journal writing (daily updates on the mundane activities of life with the occasional spurt of change, seemingly boring in theory but actually incredibly heartwarming and endearing; a collection of experiences, thoughts, poems and drawings created from a happening, a word, an encounter or just a thought in a day), but both technically a way to collect the threads of a life in writing. 

And in the end a journal is private, not meant to be shared with anyone. Which makes it still very important in my mind and heart – there are so many things that I want to express, but that I don’t want to post on Facebook, or even on my blog for that matter. 

All of this got me thinking about my own journal writing. However inconsistent in quantity my own writing has been over the years, I have always kept some type of journal, since the age of 10 when I was given my first diary as a Christmas present. I still have every journal that I have kept over the years. Sometimes a book full of the day to day activities at school and the boys I was in love with, sometimes a tremendously deep and sad recount of feelings and pain, sometimes an image of happiness, surrounded by pictures and clippings from newspapers or others. Here and there a poem, written on the spur of the moment and recorded that day, to be rediscovered years later and added to a collection of poems that I am trying to put together. I started to reprimand myself the other day for not keeping a “proper” journal anymore, when I realised that that is not true – I actually have several. They are just not the “traditional” forms of journals that I kept all these years. One is more of a “picture” journal, where you can find photos, magazine clippings, words, photos, random song lyrics, thoughts, movie stubs, concert tickets, post cards… The other is a collection of essays and short stories that I have been adding to a folder amidst other folders on my laptop for the past couple of years, all stories involving places and people in my life, all essays reciting certain experiences that I felt the need to record, all with the idea of publishing together one day. Now I realize that I don’t think I could ever publish these essays as they are, not right now anyway, as they are so very personal and don’t just involve myself, but other people who are very much real and alive. Therefore this is just my way of continuing to create a journal.

I don’t know why I do. It’s not like I want anyone to read all of these journals. Not while I am still on this earth anyway! It’s not like they contain my best writing either (although I sometimes do feel surprised when I come across something I wrote at the age of 16 when I was so unsure of myself and of my writing, and wonder why I felt that way because I had a way with words then). Even when I am at my least inspired I have always been able to write in my journal and I also think that this was (and still is) my only way to really describe how I feel and say what I really want to say in words. An outlet for emotions that are often kept pent up inside. A musician will release these emotions in song; I do it in words on paper, and on screen, the only difference being that I don’t want them to be seen. But would it be that bad if they were seen? Music has always helped me in good times and bad times and very, very bad times, so maybe my words could help another soul? I know words have always helped me too, be they in fiction, non-fiction, newspaper articles that hit home, song lyrics, poems… Even other people’s journal entries.  That said, I have never read anyone else’s personal diary (I am a huge stickler for privacy and would be the last person to go through anyone’s phone, journal, email, personal items, even if I feared the worst). I have only read published journals. From the darkest thoughts flowing from Sylvia Plath’s mind through her pen; a young teenager’s recount of being persecuted by the Nazis through Anne Frank’s eyes; trying to understand Kurt Cobain’s pain through his journal excerpts; to the fictional diaries of Adrian Mole that kept me laughing all the way through adolescence into adulthood (and still today). These journals (as well as others that I haven’t mentioned) are works of fiction in their own right, tales of moments in time that we may also have lived, or may be able to learn from, or just provide us with a historical reference to a time gone by, coloured with personal experience and thoughts.

Some of my favourite writers, Gerard de Nerval and Sylvia Plath for example, wrote their stories based on completely personal experiences. I find that I do this a lot too – although not all of the time, some of my stories are completely made up in my head, ideas conjured up by part of a conversation heard on the subway, or the sight of someone who grabs my attention on the street. Other stories are completely autobiographical and you just have to change the characters’ names to know who I am writing about, or what time in my life I am referring to.  I’m sure I have many, many more stories I could pull from my journals, stories that will finally help me finish this novel I have been working on, on and off, for the past three years. Or maybe they are all best staying right where they are, ink on paper, for my child to read when he or she is old enough to read my deepest secrets (if there is ever an age for that!). All in all, maintaining a journal has always been something that I cherish, and I will probably continue to do so until I die, in whatever format I feel like. I do miss writing, fountain pen and lined paper, but I always find nowadays that I start writing and finish by typing on my laptop and end up with random notebooks full of half-written essays and stories, as well as notes for blog posts and lists of photo numbers that I want to add to collections on Flickr. 

I just want to make sure I record everything I can… Not for anyone else, but just for myself. So that I can go back to my journals years later and remind myself that I have or haven’t changed. And just for that I think that it is incredibly important to maintain a journal – for oneself. A photo album in words.

Literature: Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar

WARNING: this post contains spoilers from the novel. If you have never read the novel and are planning on reading it, I would advise you not to read further.

Back in 2001 - 2002 I finished my MA thesis, based on Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, her letters home and her complete journals. It was a bit of a step out of my comfort zone at the time, as I was mainly immersed in the 19^th century Romantics, but I was so intrigued by Plath and her legacy that I decided to take the chance and study her writing in depth. It took so much out of me that year that I have only recently been able to read her work again without feeling like that inevitable bell jar was closing in on me again. I was rereading parts of my thesis again this morning and realized how much it had affected me, my own writing and the way I made some changes in my life once it was all over. I only have a hard copy, I think there must be a soft copy on a floppy disc somewhere, but here is part of the introduction to the thesis, with novel synopsis. Maybe one day I will take the time to type it all up again and will post it as a link. In my opinion The Bell Jar is a must-read, even just in terms of literary value. Not only a dark coming of age novel, it also brings up poignant literary themes such as doubles and mirrors, entrapment, escape and questions existence and destiny. I’ve posted some links to other novels in the same vein below.

Sylvia Plath & Esther Greenwood: The Intolerable Struggle to Exist (Introduction)

The myths and the incomprehension that surround Sylvia Plath’s memory were probably brought on by her suicide in 1963. At the time, although her poems and short stories had been published in magazines since her teenage years, her writing career was only beginning to take off in terms of public recognition. When her later poems were published two years after her death, the myths became even greater, and even cloudier. Her later work was at times so bitter and dark, and her suicide tainted the public with so much incomprehension, that her popularity shot up, with people wanting to know who she actually was, and why she killed herself.

This thesis is based on Sylvia Plath’s only published novel, The Bell Jar, a story about a young girl’s mental disintegration, the questions it brings up about possible links between the narrator in the novel and the author herself. This novel is probably Plath’s most famous piece of work, and brings up the subdued taboo of mental disorder in a semi-casual style, and in a love/hate way that makes it so interesting.

Summary of the novel:

The Bell Jar takes place in the 1950’s, in the year which the Rosenbergs were electrocuted, and starts off in New York, where the narrator – Esther Greenwood – is an intern in a fashion magazine after winning a prize. Esther befriends another fellow intern called Doreen, who is cynical, bemused and a lot more experienced than Esther. Doreen takes Esther out and they meet men, notably a certain Lenny Shephard. During one experience at Lenny’s apartment Esther witnesses Lenny and Doreen become intimate and ultimately violent with each other. Esther leaves the scene and decides to forget the experience. Although she takes care of a drunk Doreen later on in the night she convinces herself that she will have no more to do with her.

Later, Esther goes to a banquet with other prizewinners. Her mind flashes back to an earlier conversation with her editor Jay Cee. Jay Cee had reprimanded Esther for not knowing what she wanted from life, but had also tried to reassure her at the same time. All of the girls at the banquet fall ill from food poisoning.

Mrs Willard, the mother of Esther’s on-and-off Yale student boyfriend Buddy Willard, arranges for Esther to meet an interpreter called Constantin. Esther muses over her relationship with Buddy, who is in a sanitorium recovering from TB. She describes him as a hypocrite. During her outing with Constantin Esther worries about her future. She decides to let Constantin seduce, but then goes back on her decision at the last minute.

At the end of her month in New York, Esther attends a photography session, but bursts into tears when she realizes she cannot decide what to do with her future. During her last evening there she goes to a party where a Peruvian man called Marco tries to rape her, but she ultimately fights him off.

When Esther returns home to the suburbs of Boston she is told by her mother that she has not been accepted to the Harvard Summer School writing course she had applied to. Esther thinks about doing many different projects, but rejects them all nearly immediately. She has problems sleeping and tries using sleeping pills which do not work. She ends up taking the advice of a relative and goes to see a psychiatrist.

The psychiatrist, Dr Gordon, does not really listen to Esther, and during her two sessions with him Esther tries to make him diagnose her. Instead he advises her to undergo electroshock treatment. At this time Esther begins to contemplate suicide.

After her shock treatment, which goes badly, Esther tells her mother she will not go back. Her mother merely says that she knew her child was not like all of the awful mad people in the asylums. Esther becomes obsessed with suicide, attempting cutting herself, drowing and hanging herself. In the end she hides in the basement of her house and overdoses on sleeping pills. When she awakes she finds herself in hospital and thinks she has gone blind. Many people visit her, but this makes her feel even more suffocated and put on show, and she behaves like a spoilt child. She is then sent to the psychiatric wing of the hospital.

Thanks to Esther’s benefactress, Philomena Guinea, she is sent to a private mental institution where she is put in the Caplan wing and is treated by Dr Nolan, a woman, who promises to tell Esther in advance if she is ever to be scheduled for shock treatment. One of Buddy’s other girlfriends, Joan Gilling, who Esther knows, also checks into the hospital. Dr Nolan refuses to let Esther have visitation rights when she realizes that the visits halt Esther’s progress, especially after she has a good reaction to insulin treatment.

Dr Nolan moves Esther to the Belsize wing where she has greater privileges, and where Joan is too. Esther goes through a series of shock treatments and has to deal with the feeling of betrayal, as Dr Nolan does not keep her promise about telling her about them in advance. Esther then rejects Joan’s friendship when she finds out that Joan is a lesbian and soon afterwards Joan is released from the institution. After obtaining birth control, Esther meets a man called Irwin and decides to let him seduce her, but after having sex she begins to bleed heavily and asks Joan to take her to the hospital. Shortly after this incident Joan returns to the institution. A few days later she goes missing and is found in the woods where she has hanged herself.

Esther prepares to leave the institution in January when her semester starts at college. She knows people will treat her differently, that her mother wants to forget the whole episode as soon as possible and that her depression might not have completely disappeared forever. She feels free again, but not new.

When studying The Bell Jar it is important to look at the narrator’s mental torment, as this is the epicenter of the narrative. This will be done in a first part, where Esther’s entrapment will be identified through her thought process, through the idea of suicide which becomes prominent and through her constant search for identity. As the novel also deals ultimately with escape this will also be studied through the images and the actions which release Esther from her bell jar.

In a second part the theme of the double in The Bell Jar will be studied. It will be identified through Esther’s constant search for a double and through Esther’s portrayals of society, men, and finally through the images of the mother figure.

The Bell Jar has often been described as autobiographical by some and semi-autobiographical by others. This will be studied in a third part where Plath’s personal life in 1953 (the year in which the novel is set) will be compared to the narrative of the novel, through the means of Plath’s personal diaries and her letters. Plath will be compared to Esther and the question of autobiography will be reviewed.

Other novels that deal with similar subjects:

Marge Piercy - Braided Lives

Susanna Kaysen - Girl, Interrupted

Erica Jong - Fear of Flying

Ted Hughes & renewed inspiration

"But for me successful writing has usually been a case of having found good conditions for real, effortless concentration." – Ted Hughes

I read this Ted Hughes quote on Twitter this morning and it immediately inspired me to actually write something today. I haven't been inspired this past week, too many ideas, too many thoughts, too many personal things that make me want to throw and kick things. Coupled with the dreaded grey haze that sometimes creeps up at all the wrong moments. I think I chopped through it, or at least watered it down for a while, so I am just typing while I still have all of these interesting beginnings of thoughts going around my head, before I give up again for the day.
I love Ted Hughes. I actually grew to love Ted Hughes while I was writing my thesis on Sylvia Plath. While reading, dissecting and literally nearly living her journals and letters and poetry for nearly a year, and digging myself into an abyss of self-loathing and depression, reading Ted Hughes helped me climb out and reach upwards again. While Plath will now always symbolise to me how dangerous a dark mind and pure talent can be, Hughes will always be the rationaliser, the one who turns the table around to prove that poetry can also be uplifting and empowering.
Basically, that you don't have to be dark and depressive to be an amazing poet (although it can often help). Words need to be strung together to create meaning, but it takes talent to actually create strings and strings of words which open doors and close them at the same time, depending on how you interpret the flow. But I think the main lesson I learnt from both Plath and Hughes is that you can have amazing talent, but if you don't use it then there is no point in having it at all. Everything takes hard work, nothing just happens. I suppose that lesson goes for us all.

So it seems that yet again, Ted Hughes has provided the soft push in the back that I needed to move along. I needed it, just a little jab, to tell me that I can actually complete what I have been wanting to complete for the past 20 years. I feel that by finally deciding to write this novel that I have wanted to write for years I am finally actually going to complete something that I will be really proud of. It's going to be both catharsis and outpouring, and I don't know how I will come out of it on the other side, but I think that's just a game of wait and see.

I don't know if the novel will be finished by the end of the month, but it will definitely be done by the end of the year (first draft). Positive reinforcement and energy would be wonderful, thanks <3.

From September, by Ted Hughes:
"It is midsummer: the leaves hang big and still:
Behind the eye a star,
Under the silk of the wrist a sea, tell
Time is nowhere."

Ted Hughes on thinking: