For years I have kept journals. Writing page after page of secret knowledge, coming of age tales and hyper-local activity. Reporting on the 5 feet around me was my passion. I have a half dozen books and each of them represents a different chapter in my memoir. The first is pink, bubbly and clearly from my years in elementary school and Junior high. It had a “lock” on it that was hacked by my little sister a couple times and released my confessions of first kisses, crushes on the cool guy in school and dreams of becoming an actress. It smelled of my mothers perfume and carried misspellings and childish gossip. It may have been the realest thing I ever produced.
The next couple of journals in the series are rebellious and tattooed with emblems and stickers of bands that influenced my teenage angst and passions. Their pages are littered with fortunes, comics, news clippings, love notes and pictures. My words spill about the pages incoherently; mumbo jumbo to anyone reading them outside of myself. They were true representations of my chaotic mind, wise beyond it’s years and yet immature in so many ways.
The college journals are much more sophisticated and beautiful…or at least seemingly so. They hold the beginnings of my love for my husband, when we were just freshman in college and learning about what we thought was destiny. I filled its pages with bios of those that were influencing me and those that were killing me slowly. One of my favorite journals is the one I call “Mi Vida en Espana” (My Life in Spain). This booked is filled with my days abroad when I completed my degree in Spanish Language & Culture at the Universidad de Complutense in Madrid, Spain. I spent nearly four months in that amazing country, fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine. Never was there a time in my life when I felt so free and bewildered by what the world had to offer. It was a very thrilling, eye-opening and adventurous time in my life and that little journal holds glimpses into that era.
I think my point is that these books, all varied in shapes, sizes, colors and content, hold pieces of who I am. They tell truths and lies, drama and passion. All on paper. Until now. This blog and it’s entries now represent a different era in Heather’s life. The digital era. The time where a great deal of my professional and personal life is spent in front of a monitor with a keyboard at my fingertips. You might be asking yourself, “Why now? Why did it take you so long to make the switch?” I must admit that I have been reluctant to start a blog for so long for two reasons: One is that I wasn’t sure I could get the kind of release I needed by confessing to an online portal as opposed to a page in a book that no one will ever read. I doubt still that I will, and so this blog might limit me in that way. Less of a confessional and more of a conversational. Secondly, I wanted to hold on to that tangible thrill of putting pen to paper and painting stories in cursive. There is something oddly romantic about writing on paper. The feel of the smooth threads, the type of pen you choose. The mistakes and misspellings and crossed out words. It’s vulnerable in a way that online script can never be and for that I enjoy it. I will still continue to write in a journal from ime to time; maybe turning to the bounded book for comfort now and then. We shall see where this all takes me.