Ex‐journalists don’t die. They shop for journals.
So am I now a journal‐ist?
Groan now, but it’s true. I crave journals. The storyteller in me loves a well‐crafted, story‐keeper. Yes, that’s another term for where RoadBroads capture the memorable parts of their journeys.
On our recent Boulder/Portland adventure, I picked up three journals, two worthy of future storykeeping. The other requires a publisher overhaul.
At the incomparable Powell’s City of Books in Portland, Oregon, this journal leaped out.
First eyeball matched Powell’s nirvana (a three‐story bookstore that covers one entire city block).
I opened the journal. And groaned.
Out loud. In the store. Drawing stares.
Do we always have to color inside the lines?
Every right‐side page demands a laundry list of dry factoids. Money spent on gas, routes taken, sights/memorable events, highlights (differs from “memorable events”?), sleepover/dining experiences (sleeping & eating combined into one line?).
On. It. Goes.
No buzz? No joy? No agony? No heart?
Answering who‐what‐where‐when involves only one skill. Taking dictation.
Narrative juice flows only in answering two questions: how? why?
For example: how did you feel when the tire blew? Why did you stop at that run‐down cafe?
Answers to these types of questions — and not the vanilla fill‐in‐the‐blank queries above — provide both a context and a story for what we experience. Especially road trips. It’s how we sort them out. Hopefully, we gain understanding. And an honest hearing.
It’s flavor and feelings we need. Every journey offers both. Even simple trips like a quick jaunt to the grocery store offer stories. If we look.
Diaries record minutiae like “favorite sight.” Travel books log odometer readings and miles per gallon. Journals add the sensory spice of emotions and feelings. It’s juice, if you will. Ready for the drinking if we’re willing to dive deep and write/talk about those along with the neutral flavors of wind direction and highway speed.
I digress. Bigly. Whoa! Sorry…
This journal’s lines are too narrow. Nobody can write hyper‐tiny like this. The book is too thick at 200‐plus pages. Not switching backpacks.
I do like the blanks offered on every left‐facing page. However, the empty lines are crammed together. For more tightly‐written text?
To every negative, there’s a positive. This journal offers a great backside:
Asphalt makes a perfect ending for a journal. It’s the surface that grounds every trip. Flying is your main route? Eventually, you’ll return to asphalt.
The better Powell’s journal was this one.
Each time I pick it up, I find something new. Today, “wanderlust” screams. Time for another road trip?
I open this journal and smile. Writer‐friendly lines talk, beckoning with “one quick page, come on, scribble details, that Boulder moment when…”
Why this rising wanderlust? Home two weeks, hungering for the road? Again? Cough, cough. Last trip not yet paid off. Reality Ah, reality.
My fingers flip back to the cover and my eyes scan it a second time.
The journey matters
I thank the Muse for that future blog post idea. In Colorado, I met my favorite new journal at a favorite place, the Boulder Bookstore, holder of special memories and favorite friends.
This journal captures truth, with my clarification: it’s always about the story.
Why readers read, writers write. It’s why: the journey matters.
I drafted this blog post then rested. Returning later, the three journals beckoned. I opened one to its very last page.
Second leap. Two thoughts.
And — why did this company bury the lead?
Take a closer look. That journal on the second row, third from the left.
Christmas. The Holiday Journal.
Maybe I could write it.