On Journalling

and discovering stationery + honing my writing voice.

I started keeping a journal (or “personal diary”, as I called it back then) when I was eleven years old.

At my best friend’s birthday party, I received a small Barbie notebook as a return gift. It had coloured pages, and a sweet little lock and key hanging from the side.

I had no idea that such an ordinary thing - what’s so special about a notebook the size of a too-large coaster? - would completely turn my universe around. In fact, as I look back on my journey of self-discovery through the written word, I realise that this delightful video, and the practice of morning pages pioneered by Julia Cameron in her insightful book, The Artist's Way, has inspired me to exercise a significant amount of self-discipline and write every single day.

I don’t remember how and when I started. (If I open my cupboard and unearth that little notebook from among all the other, bigger ones, it will come back to me.) What I do remember clearly is that at first, I wasn’t willing to write. I was too resistant to, and sceptical of, the idea of writing down my “true feelings”. (How does an eleven-year-old, who is at that supremely awkward stage which hangs somewhere between childhood and adolescence, define the phrase?) For days - months, perhaps - I kept finding excuses not to write. I tried deliberately forgetting about it; pretending that it didn’t exist.

And then, one fine day, I uncapped a glitter pen (they were all the rage at that time; how I used to love getting glittery ink all over my hands!), and opened the notebook to the first page. For some reason, the colour of that page still stands out in my memory: it was so jarringly pink. The pink shrieked: “looook at me!” It was like a neon magnet.

What I wrote that first day is blurry in my mind’s eye (at most, it must've been three sentences about how weird this whole writing business was; I was obviously preoccupied with the more important things in the life of an eleven-year-old). But from that day onwards, a fire within me had been lit. It kept petering out, more often than I would’ve liked it to - but it was never completely extinguished. It just needed a particularly vigorous poke every now and then to get going again.

As days turned into months, which turned into years, the Barbie notebook (completely full - who would have thought?) was replaced by sturdier, meatier alternatives. I have never taken a liking to leather-bound office diaries; I find them too stiff and bulky. As a college student, I used to like the usual softbound classroom notebook or register. Depending on its size, it can go on for three to six months. Now, though, I love the sturdy ITC Paperkraft A5 hardcover or spiral; always ruled, never blank.

Anyway. Size or type of notebook notwithstanding, I’ve lost count of how many I’ve filled up in the past so many years. (I’m trying to think of how many words that would be. It could be enough for a novel, you know.) Forty-something notebooks, and still going strong. The fascination with the glitter pen, though, has long since faded. I went through a Pilot Hi-Tecpoint phase from age fifteen to nineteen, and then - because it was getting way too expensive (50 rupees apiece) - I switched over to the more humble ballpoint in my final year of undergraduate studies. Now, my favourite is a roller gel/ball pen - the Uniball Eye Micro or the refillable Uniball 215; the Pilot V5. The thinner the nib, the better my handwriting. And while I am writing - physically writing, not typing - something happens to me. I cannot describe it. It’s like a chemical reaction. Every time, there is a perhaps small, but definitely discernible, change.

Sometimes, I write multiple times a day. There’s never a dearth of people around me to make conversation with (I feel the exact opposite, though - there are too many people; over-friendly and over-curious to know every last detail - which is why I retreat into the non-judgemental and unconditionally accepting world of paper and ink), but I still prefer writing as a means of effective communication. What does that say about me? (I’m not stupid; I’m fully aware that I can’t permanently seal my mouth and keep on writing. It’s just that if I were given a choice between the two, guess which one I would choose? Surprise, surprise.)

My journals have seen me at my most vulnerable; my angriest; my most raw and hurt. As a reminder that I've lived through a couple of emotional thunderstorms (or so I perceive), some pages still have tear-stains on them. Whenever people ask me how I remain faithful to the now-seemingly-archaic combination of pen and paper, I have a line from The Diary of Anne Frank ready as a retort: “Paper has more patience than people.”

And it’s true. Agreed, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t confided in anyone - of course I have; paper and pen won’t give me reassuring hugs and cuddles in return, now, will they? - but, you see, what I’m noticing is that people simply don’t have the time for anyone any more, except themselves. They don’t want to have a proper sit-down conversation about the deep things in, and of, life. Instead, the majority wants to sit in a coffee shop and wear their eyes out by staring at the harsh glare emanating from whatever device it is that they’re using. They are visibly more comfortable in the company of electronic devices rather than actual flesh-and-blood human beings. And that, for me, is a deeply distressing realisation. Whatever happened to old-fashioned heart-to-hearts in a quiet corner, where two people could freely exchange confidences and really listen to each other, with a reassuring squeeze of the hand - or any sort of heartfelt touch, really, because the power of touch and affection is so very underestimated - for added comfort?

I digress. I’m sorry. But I do feel very strongly about this. This is exactly what makes me want to shut out the meaningless chatter and focus on my own heart and needs instead. And, of course, the primal need in me to understand myself - to learn why I feel, think and behave the way I do - is satisfied in one way and one way only: through writing in my journal. For me, it is the closest thing to prayer. During that half-hour (or perhaps more; I always lose track of time), I get in touch with my innermost reality, and actively try to figure out what needs unravelling, fixing and healing. Sometimes, the process is particularly difficult - but it results in a (mostly) positive outcome. Writing everything down, completely uninhibited, frees me. I feel like the fist inside me has unclenched itself; as though the heart - once clogged - has started pumping blood again.

Simply put, journalling (much like reading) is a way of life: indeed, it is life itself. It has altered my perception of the smallest things - made me far more self-aware, so that I think and act accordingly - and for that, I am inexpressibly grateful.

It’s been almost two decades of putting pen to paper - exploring automatic writing and stream-of-consciousness technique long before I was introduced to them as a Literature undergraduate. There is so much still waiting to be permanently etched on paper. More notebooks are waiting, their pristine white pages almost gleaming in anticipation. Pens are full of ink. The story has just begun.