Do you keep a journal, or does it keep you? I often wonder about this, the systematic recording of one’s thoughts, feelings, wishes, fears, desires, episodes, et cetera. I mean, why? Why do it?

Because it’s cathartic, it reminds us of where we’ve been, it shows us how strong we are when we see how far we’ve come.

In college, I was enchanted with author and libertine Peter McWilliams. He wrote a couple of books that were absolutely critical to me. One of them was Come Love With Me and Be My Life. In it, he records the beginning, middle, and end of a romantic love experience. It’s almost voyeuristic to read, because it’s journalistic in nature, and no doubt anyone who’s been through a heartbreak (or two) could relate. One of my favorite entries:

I write only
until I cry,
which is why
so few poems
this month
have been
It’s just