In revisiting these early volumes, I’m reminded of how much of the practice was an effort to recall just what had happened since the previous entry. Just recording the events has often been an essential attempt to see the connections in my life. Still, I am aware that many activities and realizations slipped past notation.
Often, my allotted time for journaling has left me barely able to make an outline of the course. I hoped it would be enough to prompt me into fuller memory later. By now, of course, so much of the fullness is lost in a haze.
So here are some things that barely showed up in the spiralbound notebooks.
My crazy employment situation: the scheduling (rarely two days off in a row) or the near-poverty pay. As for the others on the copyediting desk? Each would be worthy of a profile, had I been more inquisitive.
The autumn foliage: that first October was a revelation for me. As I’ve described elsewhere, the intense colors came on in waves, something like a fire beginning at the ridgeline of the forested hills or low mountains in the Southern Tier of Upstate New York and the neighboring Northern Tier of Pennsylvania. Since my shift usually ended at either 1:30 or 3, depending, I was able to explore that countryside in the late-afternoon sun. I put many miles wandering on my Skylark, sometimes getting wondrously lost. Adding to the brilliance was the fact that the trees were a blend of northern species and those of the South.
The snowfall experience: this was my first winter of relentless snowcover, one that was accompanied by extended deep cold. I had thought the sports editor was joking when he wrote to me in Indiana the previous winter that he was shoveling the snow from his roof. Now the reality sank in.
The people I was corresponding with: Those letters have disappeared in my many moves, though I’m certain I relied heavily on them in creating my novels. It was apparently more widespread than I’ve been thinking – high school classmates, a few others from college, including the student newspaper and my internship at the Journal Herald, teachers. Did I send off a large round of Christmas cards that year? I’m now inclined to think so.
The utility spool: the one I used as a desk in my bedroom. Somehow, remembering that now stirs up a sense of what the rest of the room was like. Really drab, should you want to know.
Just what was I typing away on? Both in the apartment and later at the farm, using lengths of teletype paper just like Jack Kerouac, I must have been drafting much that was later used in the drafting of fiction. Perhaps those included details I’ve found lacking in the spiralbound journals.
Perhaps you sense other omissions. Fire away!
Jnana's Red Barn 