On the Narcissism of Keeping a Record

or “To Diary or Not to Diary”

by Marcello Cortese

I’ve been rather distracted lately.

Like very distracted. Life has been full of a handful of false starts and in other moments full finishes. Sweet realizations. I’ve not been writing much at all, except in fits and starts per those moments that catch one by surprise and the fever is back, if only for a few minutes. But that’s something, I guess.

The easiest thing to blame in these moments is the summer. Summertime and profundity/clarity do not mix. Hemingway once wrote in one of his letters to F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Summer is a discouraging time to work — you don’t feel death coming on the way it does in the fall when the boys really put pen to paper.” I think about this a lot. Like a lot a lot. A few summers ago I actually tried to write out a novella by hand in a bound journal after reading some more of Hemingway’s tactics… I tried copying his morning routine and found it to be helpful and meditative. Fueled, too, by the knowledge that Toni Morrison wrote almost all of her work in longhand on yellow legal pads. 

I always found that incredible. I still do.

But what I found around that summer that I attempted — and ultimately failed — this handwritten novella was that I was trying to spite Hemingway. I originally hated that quote, thinking that he was just bigheaded and a whiner. I often contrasted it to Stephen King’s classic, “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.” That was more of an inspiration to me, more of a terrifying boot to the ass to keep me going. 

But now, I think I, too, am a whiner. Just like Hemingway. Because try as I might to be a person of extreme concentration and dedication, in the summertime it just doesn’t hit the same. Perhaps it is all about the feeling of death that makes the work “possible,” and in the summertime the mind naturally shuts away those aspects of mortality. 

This long and seemingly unrelated tangent now arrives at our actual discussion: journaling as a “remedy” or secondary measure to regular “craft” or “soul maintenance.” It isn’t as structured as the act of writing, and isn’t as specialized. Anyone can do it for any reason. It acts a bit as a safety catch for an uninspired mind, providing some sense of solace and consistency during a period where the soul has gone mute and the mind is vacuumed right out.

I’ve kept a journal consistently going on four years now… I’d not really understood the importance before moving to New York. I initially kept a journal as a therapeutic measure — the standard reason — and as time went on I would just scribble down all sorts of random things. 

Some recipe ideas, a strange phrase or sound that I’d heard or thought of the other day, a lot of random and really specific plot points or details for stories. Now that I remember, I actually once wrote a mini epic poem in a single afternoon because there was a rhyme scheme in my head that wouldn’t leave me alone. I remember spending all afternoon etching stanzas upon stanzas into the notebook until it was an incredible mess… It later turned into my longest poem to date, “This Ultimate Rule.” The husk of it lingers in one of my journals somewhere.

Then when I came to uni journaling took on a more intentional value. In one of my psychoanalysis courses, I had a professor who urged all of us to keep a dream journal throughout the semester. She dedicated the first twenty minutes of every class session to dream analysis, letting anyone offer up their recent dreams for the sake of the exercise. That was one of my favorite aspects of college, honestly. In this context, there was often the recurring question of performance. This professor proposed the idea of dreaming “for others,” if there is such a thing. The notion was that a person’s dreams are the things of their relationships and surroundings, informed by them in waking hours and resurrected in a dreamscape, that they can be imitative messages directed to a specific person or thought or feeling here in the real world. 

I didn’t have much time to wrap my head around this idea, or to form my own opinion on it… the night after that class I had a dream that was essentially a shot-for-shot remake of the “performance” discussion. With some alterations. The timing alone was uncanny… There were a lot of gasps when I brought it back to share at the next session. 

I actually remember that the consensus we landed on for that analysis was that it was a money anxiety dream. Whaddya know?

Lately I’ve been making the comparison between dreams and journaling in this context of “performing,” or having these things be “for others.” For example, a few weeks ago I was in Costa Rica on vacation with my family. The trip reset a great deal dietarily, habitually, mentally. We ate clean, simple food. We worked on our tans. We awoke with the sun and the sound of monkeys. 

After about day two, my dreams started coming back to me. Typically, I’m not a lucid dreamer or even someone who regularly remembers my dreams, but throughout this week I awoke with something new and vivid each morning that I had to share with my sister. It was a conversation that made me curious about whether dreams are meant to be shared. I wasn’t journaling much during this trip, but one morning I woke and went to breakfast and began to recount the dream from the night before. The only part of the dream I remember — though it was extremely vivid — was reading an essay from a larger collection by some unknown author. 

The essay was on journaling, and the take this writer had was that one should never journal at home. The reason, so he put it, was that the thoughts one has in one’s own home, when it is quiet and easy, are only the lofty imaginations of something instead of the actual thing… that the low level of stimuli lets the mind race exponentially, and therefore you can think up literally anything when you’re in the confines of your own home. (Now that I’m writing this out this does sound like Lacan in a few ways).

He proposed instead that people should journal when they are out in the world, in the midst of experiences and are being affected by their surroundings in real time in space. That way the scenario isn’t dreamed or thought up, but is actual reality, and therefore can be observed and responded to. 

The idea was that “nothing you think at home counts.”

There was also this curious sidenote this fictitious “author” made in the essay: that one ought to always write down those fleeting half-ideas when you’re in the middle of doing something else (the shower thought) because those bizarre little intrusions are the most important, as they come from the subconscious, and disappear almost instantly if not documented.

Yeah, okay. A bit of Lacan for sure. Anyway…

So I told my sister all of this at breakfast, as best as I could. After a few minutes we both went on the internet to do some digging… something I didn’t even consider until she suggested it was probably something I’d read before. I found Joan Didion. She dug up John Muir and John Muir Laws (no relation). Neither of these pieces were ones that I read at all before having the dream, so naturally I began to joke that I had accidentally invented a new, meta philosophy. 

At any rate, after reading both Didion’s “On Keeping a Notebook” and “Journal Writing with John Muir”, I came to stew a little more on this idea of the internal and external voice that is tied to journaling. Didion’s essay, I found, focused a lot more on observational journaling than I inherently expected. She collapses the stories found in her old journals right into the broader aspects of journaling, enhancing the idea that journaling is based on a reservation held by only a demographic few in the world. That it is an anxious and confused habit or, as she puts it, a compulsion “inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself.” This thought moves into the statement that Didion doesn’t believe her daughter will be a person who journals because she is a blessed and contented child, one “unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up.” 

I’d say this section is the navel of Didion’s essay. The anxiety that she emphasizes is fostered by an unspoken kind of “drive” in the journal-er that the non-journal-er doesn’t have. Why is it that some people will fear the night — fear sleep — unless they unravel it through words on a page? What is so scary about the unspoken, the uncherished, the unresolved? This might be the age-old question. Does it exist if there isn’t a record? If I ever had the opportunity to ask Didion one question and one alone, I would want to know if she truly felt that journaling is a narcissistic habit or an avoidant one. Perhaps a third possibility?

Where Didion and I differ is that the majority of my journaling is internal. Every now and then there is a list of errands or some park bench observation thrown in, but the vast majority of the contents is that of an inner mind. From what I can infer per her essay, Didion’s process is more of a dialogue with her surroundings, not so much a stream of consciousness or rumination as it is a stageplay. A short story. Something closer to Tolstoy, who can construct an entire story with a two sentence diary entry (I’ve fallen in love or imagine I have…)

The remedy to this compulsive-anxiety, according to Harold Wood of the Sierra Club, would be the traditional, transcendental practice championed by men like Emerson, Thoreau, and John Muir. In his article mentioned above, Wood distinguishes the different kinds of journals: the meditative, the observational, the brainstorm, the doodle… 

He provides a basic structure for getting into the practice of journaling, suggesting that a person start out with a diary entry focused on mindfulness and emotional states, perhaps a reflection in response to the writing of someone else that inspires them. However, he makes a note that the danger of this kind of introspection as a regular and thorough habit is that a person will become “too self-absorbed.” 

The alternative is to follow the standard set by these nature writers and travelers. To go out into the world, into nature, and find the opportunity to mix introspection with one’s surroundings. An age-old idea because it’s all some people had for periods of time. Poetry as we know it stems from nature. So does religion. Politics, even. It has been everything to the world for so much of time, even when sidelined. I think it still is, just not as consuming as it used to be. 

Wood argues the nature journal is the best way to mix art and science. He suggests smearing a berry on a page and writing about what it reminds you of. To have something tangible, not lofty or opaque, to think on and about as a grounding measure. This kind of journaling, he says, is a healthier habit that allows the brain to clean itself of the information that it cannot continue to hold onto. Quoting Wood quoting John Muir Laws, “The journal frees up our brain, once you’ve got all of this down on paper, your brain is freed up to operate at more sophisticated levels.” Definitely a more optimistic outlook on the practice… more optimistic than Didion’s “naturalist” perspective, surely. Is the difference between these two schools of thought the focus on different subjects? Or is it about the literal echelons of thought that each practice stimulates, and that each are on totally separate levels? 

That’s the funny thing I found. Two starkly different vantages: one about humanity and psychology, the other about meditation and observing trees. Naturalism versus Romanticism. Winter versus summer. Self-importance versus losing sight of the self. Both rooted in the importance of observation. 

What a person chooses to talk speaks to their sense of priority, what they see and focus on in life, how they might respond to a countering argument. But it’s a faulty metric because there is so much about living that simply cannot be captured through language. Just because a person journals in the throes of nature and uses it as fodder for self-enlightenment doesn’t mean they’re not a cynic. And if someone chooses to write about a woman wearing a dirty crepe-de-chine wrapper and forget about it later, like Didion did, it doesn’t immediately mean they’re the fault-finder in paradise. It illuminates enough about a person’s responses and coping mechanisms, and those are the important takeaways. Thoreau and Emerson used their journal entries to write stories and lectures that advanced their careers. It’s not like Thoreau wrote Walden and didn’t enjoy the fame that came from its success. 

So is it possible to go about journaling in a way that isn’t egocentric? What inherently is in it for the writer? Is there an intended audience? Who, besides the owner of the journal, has actually read its pages? And do people ever even read their journals later on?

I’ve tried, believe me. In hindsight it’s never as poetic as I imagine while writing the thoughts down.

I think there’s a great pressure on what is even worth thinking about when it comes to journaling. It may be tied to the anxiety that Didion speaks of, this kind of compulsion to maintain a “story” interesting enough to be remembered and documented… it could in part be due to an unconscious economic concern; to waste paper is to waste money and resources. It could be for any number of reasons, and I don’t think it stops at journaling. 

The evil, extroverted twin of a journal is social media. Perhaps Substack. But before it was Twitter and even Instagram… the sense of curation there is strong and pungent with performative nature.

Everyone wants to be interesting. Everyone wants to be looked at, listened to. The need for recognition cannot be dismissed very casually in most cases, nor does it need to be. But I do wonder about this relation between the intimacy of writing half-letters to yourself in a blankpaged book and the general shamelessness of posting your life to the internet. They might just be two sides of the same coin: both everyone and no one is listening.

I’m reminded of this habit of mine that is taking a book and notebook to a bar to read. As a person who enjoys my solitude a regular amount, I still find that reading in a crowded room is usually more enjoyable than at home. The energy and background noise is more comforting; the sound of the world around you, as a drone. It can be the same for writing. I’ve talked to so many people about this and a decent majority have said they find it…

Yep, you guessed correctly: performative.

It took me a minute to understand why anyone would look at a person reading at a bar and call them phony. But after all, with the constant trendification of life and emphasis on having short, sexy attention spans, maybe that’s true. I’ve walked past my fair share of white-socked, black-loafered men sitting out on a cafe patio with their trucker hat and copy of The Second Sex in hand and instantly rolled my eyes (I’m looking at you, Cafe Lyria). And yes, there is a certain type that isn’t actually out there to be reading. But some people are. 

Once at a solo dinner I was journaling and the waitress thought I was a food critic. Another time someone gave me a dirty look because they thought I was documenting what they were doing. What interests me about encounters like these is that these people thought I was writing about them. Why would I be, right? But also, why wouldn’t I be? We can’t help but make snap judgments in the swing of the moment, and the narrative in our heads is thrilling to entertain. No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality… Just like with Didion’s admission that she invented memories that were more enticing to her. Or being at a party and sauntering around the person with the camera to see if they’ll take a “candid” photo of you.  

In this matter of visibility, there is also something to be said about the journal itself. Like how in grade school everyone had different colored notebooks for different subjects: red for math, green for science, blue for english, purple for art or a language, brown for history. If you disagree, argue with a wall.

But to that point, what says a plain journal to an ornate one? When I picked up the habit, I insisted to myself that I must always have a beautiful journal, something lovely to hold my brain. I continue to scope out new designs and patterns whenever I need… once I couldn’t decide and bought a plain leatherbound situation. It bothers me to this day.

And why does it bother me? Maybe because I’m vain. Or so egocentric that I can’t stand the idea of having a plain or uninteresting notebook, as it would bring me no pleasure. Perhaps I do indeed relish the idea of writing in public and having someone remark on the beauty of my little notebook. After all, I met one of my best friends because I was sitting at a bar with my gorgeous little Paperblanks. She walked over and asked where I got it. The rest is history.

I could try to think that we met in an entirely organic way, separate from the journal. That it was only an entry point into conversation. But I’d be remiss if I went back and changed the memory to the same scene, just with a plain, simple journal. I don’t think the evening would have panned out the same if I hadn’t insisted on having something pretty to look at. Because unlike Didion, I don’t think I can invent memories as successfully. My imagination is limited in that regard. Instead I choose to make the reality more interesting so as to have something to think back on. And I guess it’s also true that the people who are drawn to shiny things ultimately find each other.

Petty and silly little things that seem trivial enough but, overtime, I’ve found that enough of these little gratuities snowball into something like curation. A nervous or chalant or fantastical image of the self that stands out amongst the others. Doesn’t matter how, just that it sticks. Which is a bit delusional, I suppose, but it’s a tried and true bridge to more of the shiny things in life. I personally think the collective priority of the “self” is boring. We’re all more or less just as uninteresting as the next. Yet it’s the common ground. Ourselves and our experiences. Dull and sparkly. It matters less about the subject that we choose than the perspective taken, really. That’s what makes a fellow interesting. To write about anything is a gamble with expectation. And I do typically journal about myself, so I guess that makes me a hypocrite. As well as boring.

It’s an odd thing to put down your mind into a book with pride and hope that someone else will want to read it later on. It’s pretty arrogant, honestly. I even admit that I curate my thoughts because I expect that decades from now, someone will read my journals and think they’re brilliant. If I were to know that no one would after I’m dead, I’d probably be pretty disappointed. And if you think this way too you’re just as self-centered as me. Just kidding. But at the end of the day, a writer is an egoist. 

But, as it is the summertime, and Death is further away, and the mind is a bit quieter, and heartbreak heals twice as fast, I find the habit a silly one. I’ve nothing interesting to journal about lately, and daily the pages get filled in a little more anyway. At home or in public. All I’m left with now is the wonder… Is it about being read and discussed in half a century? Or is it instead about being seen writing, right now?