Journaling

I've been writing a journal for years. However, my entries this year have been more frequent and lengthy. Other writing projects are on hold until I resettle in Nevada. On the road, I'm finding it difficult to work on future, speculative projects.

Writing for my blogs is enough work for now, as is my journaling. My journals are beginning to contain the kinds of things I've often desired to write about, but for some reason never took the effort to include. Characters, conversations, observances, and all kinds of things are being jumbled in among the self-analysis and confessions that resonate throughout my journal.

For example, I recently encountered a character one early morning in the front of a grocery store and made this entry in my journal:

"Next door to the coin laundry is a grocery store proudly named “Homeland”. The store reminded me of the Minyard’s I used to visit weekly on Preston Road in Dallas when living there with Boo. A community store, old and worn out from years of selling food to nearby home dwellers, and not exactly up to the standards of a modern Kroger or Tom Thumb.

On the way in I almost ran over an elderly man who was sweeping the front door entrance area.

“Excuse me sir,” I said while stepping over his broom. He said nothing but just looked up with a disgusted facial expression as if to tell me, “You idiot…can’t you see I’m trying to sweep here…get out of my way!”

I saw the old man again when I left the store—he was still sweeping and groaning about life. He spoke to another man who was leaving the store and I noticed a remarkable New York accent, like a character from a “Sopranos” episode.

How would I describe him? Hunched over, with stooping shoulders, head and neck stuck in a downward location, making him look upward in a squinting motion in order to see where to walk. He was at least in his mid 60s, maybe well over 70 years old. His white hair was receding from his head leaving a nice shiner on top and his clothes were too large for him.

On my way out, however, I didn’t say a word. He’s way too grumpy this early in the morning. I watched him clean and sweep for a moment. He used the broom like a sword, conquering the dirt and trash, stabbing at the gum stuck on the concrete. He violently, quickly, and with a bit of unrestrained enthusiasm hoisted the rubber mat laying in front of the store’s double glass doors and shook it out like it was a gentleman’s cloak."

My earlier journal entries from years ago never contained these kind of observances. My old journals were more about me, which was the problem. As I have matured, both as a person and a writer, I'm discovering that who I am is partially a result of the world in which I travel. My life is defined by my interactions and observations of the world around me. It should be no surprise that a deeply personal journal should contain observations of that world.