Member-only story
Recounting the Mundane Days
My journal habits are boring.
I was a journal-writing fiend in high school. I transitioned from a small, Catholic grade school to a large, public high school and had to make all new friends. One girl I met intrigued me in many ways: she was involved in all of the same activities (theater, band, choir) and was so poised and self-assured. She carried her journal everywhere and was constantly scribbling.
I had always loved to write, so found myself emulating her — filling journal after journal with the emotional ramblings of a teenager. If I was bored in class, I would write, cocky enough that no teacher would dare interrupt my musings by demanding my attention. My journaling was a self-important means of escape.
In college, I wrote less. Gone were the hormones and drama of high school life and I needed it less. As an English major, I was buried in the reading and writing of my coursework and writing for pleasure took a backseat.
Then a job after college. I had to travel to small towns across the United States, usually leaving on Monday and arriving home on Friday. I was so fatigued in the evenings after presentations all day long that I would usually crash in my hotel room and find HGTV or reruns of Friends.
