‘Call yourself a writer?’

These were the words that started off my current journaling journey. The words, and the surprise on the face of the questioner. How could a writer possibly not keep a journal?

By this time, I had long given up keeping anything other than a diary (A5, week to view), full of meetings, appointments, the beginnings and ends of holidays, the occasional note of a significant event. I had kept a journal as a child, from the age of about 7 until I started university at 18. I loved to write – the glide of the pen over the paper seemed to feed something in my soul, and I enjoyed the quiet reflective time at the end of each day.

But I became dissatisfied with the endless pages of notes about what I had for breakfast, thoughts on the humdrum of everyday life, the occasional rant when someone or something upset me, coded swooning about whoever I was in love with. It all seemed pretty pointless and the navel-gazing eventually became unflattering.

The suggestion that I might start journaling again as a ‘writer’ filled me with joyful anticipation. The first place to start was, of course, the stationery shop (the writer’s equivalent of the sweetie shop!). I began with a lined A4 hard-cover book, quickly discovered that it was too big to fit in my bag, and downscaled to an A5 version which fit well into any handbag. But it seemed to lack the space to explore.

I persevered for a while, trying different sizes of notebook, hardback, softback, stitched, spiral-bound. I filled pages with notes on what I was writing at that particular time, whether it be poetry, a short story or something longer.

Notes on setting, character, an imagined piece of dialogue, or just scribblings around any sticking points in an attempt to find resolution. Ideas that occurred to me as I went about my everyday business on things that might make good fodder for a poem, story or article – an overheard line, an observation on the train and such-like – and free writing all ended up in my journal.

This was useful, contributing greatly to the energy of my writing, even if only in preventing my writing plates from crashing to the ground when the other stuff of life crowded in. But there was still a journaling itch to be scratched, a need for somewhere to simply record thoughts, feelings and events. Perhaps this is just ego. But then again, journaling is intensely private, and the burning of my journals will be one element of the putting my house into order when the time comes.

With the itch continuing unabated, for a while I ended up with several journals all going at the same time. One for writing, one for general observations and reflections on life, one for domestic and work matters, and a book of lists of things to do. Of course, this lasted for all of a few, before it became unwieldy and too time-consuming.

I have made excellent use of aforesaid stationery shops, using blank books, highly organised journals with timetables and sections for goals, exercise, gratitude and everything in between, and sheets of loose leaf A4 which get deposited into a box like receipts, in case I should ever need them again. There are also some useful online formats, like Day One and Life Journal. These combine ease of use with lack of accumulation of paper and ease of deletion. But for me, the flow of pen on paper is an important part of journaling.

So, for the time being, the search continues for the ideal journal, one that combines space for appointments, lists, and reflections – on both life and writing. Oh, and it must fit in my handbag!