I’m a journaler. It is the single, constant thread throughout my life.
Am I a writer?
It’s odd how extraordinarily complex that question is. Especially in a culture where “what do you do?” is an implied question of the occupation for which you earn your living. (And no, that is not so everywhere.) And for reasons complex and layered, even excepting the occupational part of the label, it has always seemed like a limiting question. Like, “yes, but…”
It’s too narrow, somehow. But I am a journaler. I do not get paid for it and yet am unquestionably enriched by it.
I think that moving all, or even most, of that into this space would be debilitating and stupid.
What I must do, however, is take some of the naked, unprotected, unmerciful honesty of those pages – especially the most honest ones, the ones written in secret code¹ and kept secret for decades (from everyone but my mom) and let it loose in the world.
Let it brave the high seas.
Truth is a sword, a powerful weapon who takes no prisoners and spares not her speaker. Once unleashed, it rages beyond the control of man.