Last week I read a passage in Shelter Us, a novel by She Writes Press author Laura Nicole Diamond that reminded me about the sacred value of our journals and private notations we make in books we love. In this scene, Diamond’s protagonist, Sarah Shaw, has recently lost her mother, and is looking through her mother’s books with her grandmother, Bibi.
"We took my mom’s Judaism books off her shelves, and paid close attention to the handwritten notes in the margins. We handled them like illuminated treasures from the Dark Ages. We talked about the passages she had underlined, and what she might have thought about God. Bibi, a pragmatist who hadn’t stepped into a church since she’d come to America, was intrigued by her daughter’s interest in religion."
I was struck by this moment because no one would think to look at someone’s book notations while they’re alive. I sometimes find myself pondering the idea of who might eventually read my words when I scribble in my own books—filling what I’m reading with underlines, highlights, and notes. And my journals, viewed from this vantage point, would qualify as a genuine treasure trove.
My mom died in December 2012. We are still going through her things. Sorting through her books recently, I came upon a journal titled, “Italy Trip with Bella.” I was excited to find this journal. She penned her private impressions here, I thought. The prospect of reading her journal made me feel closer to her, as if she could speak to me from beyond the grave. I missed her terribly and was hungry for connection. I wondered if I’d learn anything new about her. We’d been close. She’d confided in me, but was there more to know?
The hitch was, as a writer of journals myself, I wondered if it would be better not to look. Would I be invading her privacy? What if she wrote hurtful things? What if, like me, she used her journal to vent, rant, and blow off steam? I write things in my journal I’d never say to people in my family.
I’m a big girl, I told myself. I can handle it. My desire to feel closer to her outweighed any fears that she may have written something negative about me, or our trip. Besides, I thought, more than two decades have past since that journey. Time is a great equalizer, a balm for old wounds. And the important thing is how much we loved each other.
Inside the journal, my mom had only written three pages, which read more like an itinerary than a diary. It said things like, “Arrived Rome on the 8:55 train. Met Carla for breakfast. Rented car on Thursday. Drove to Florence. Went to Il Marcato Porcellino and saw Linda.” It was a cryptic reporting of a few activities, but contained none of her thoughts or impressions.
Other journals have surfaced, and they’re all the same: blank books with a few scribbled pages, factual notations, such as doctor’s appointments, bank transactions, and to-do lists. My mom’s journals are less descriptive than my calendar.
My journals, by contrast, are teeming with my inner life. I’ve been pouring my guts onto the pages of my journals for over thirty years. I keep some in a cabinet in the garage, arranged chronologically by date and year, and other more recent ones in a cabinet in my study. They’ve provided excellent source material for stories and poems, and now for my memoir.
I’ve told my husband to throw my journals away if I die first, and not to read them. I need to know I can write anything without worrying about hurting my loved ones’ feelings.
But in going through my mother’s things, I realize I’ve made a difficult request of him, one he might not follow through on if put in the position to do so. If my mother had left behind over a hundred journals, it would have been very difficult for me to throw them away without at least skimming them. The thirst for connection since her death has been powerful, the desire to hear her voice palpable.
Still, some things are meant to be private. I, of all people, should understand this. I’m always saying that my journal is for me. For my health, self-expression, and sanity. It’s the place where I figure things out—my doodles, rants, judgments, story scraps, bits of poems, letters I’ve needed to write, but not always send.
Some of my journal entries might comfort, and perhaps even help or inspire my daughter one day after I’m gone, but unfortunately the “good” stuff is mixed with the “bad.” Lately I’ve been thinking about keeping a journal for her to read after I die. I’d talk about losing my mom and the grieving process, and other things she wouldn’t relate to now as a college freshman, but might appreciate later, in midlife. Now that my mother is gone I have so many questions I’d like to ask her. I keep a journal in which I write her letters, and she “responds.” I write what I think she’d say. I write what her spirit whispers into my ear. I write what I know is true. The things she taught me. The part of her that is still very much alive in me. But I’d like to give my daughter something more. I’d like to give her a few meaty entries to sink her teeth into without overwhelming her with the whole messy cannon!
What plans, if any, have you made for your journals? Have you told your family to get rid of them, not to read them after you pass? Are you okay with your family reading your journals after you’re gone? I’d love to hear your insights and wisdom on this subject, which I haven’t quite resolved. Thanks for reading and weighing in on this. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Kamy Wicoff: That's a great idea, earmarking journals for your sons. Maybe I'll do that for my daughter. Thanks for the inspiration.
I think about this all the time! Especially with regard to my children. My journals often disproportionately depict my dark side. I did start keeping two separate journals when my sons were very young (toddlers), just for them, recounting my thoughts about them as they grow, funny stories, etc. At least I will know that those journals are clearly earmarked for them, and written with them in mind.
Katrina Katzenbach: Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I feel a lot like you do, going back and forth between wanting my journals burned and wanting them preserved. That said, I don't worry so much about what a family member could do to ME if they don't like what they read; I'm more concerend about what my words might to do THEM. I'd hate to hurt my loved ones.
Looking at the journals of relatives is a way to learn about a potential part of them previously unknown to you.
I've kept a journal since I was six, and am now part of a happy journaling duo. All of the family journals are kept together. I don't know what I would want to happen to my journals. Part of me wants them to be burned, but then a grandiose part of me wants them preserved. What will probably happen is that the rest of the Katzenbachs will tell themselves, "Just a peak", and will read all of them.
I personally don't have too many qualms about them taking something out of context. Though it worries me in theory, what could they do to me if they don't like what they hear?
Susie Klein: I agree with you. As long as I'm alive I want my journals, which I refer to for writing projects. And like you, I hate the idea of someone taking my words out of context and being wounded by them. Thanks for reading and sharing.
Nancy McMillan: I know what you mean about documents written by loved ones—how precious they are. I love what you said about them containing “a smidge of their energy.” So true.
Lois Heise: Thanks for this persepctive. I get it.
Reading old journals can be illuminating, as well as painful!
Carol Kurtz Walsh: Thanks for weighing in here. I agree that memoirs can be beautiful gifts for our loved ones.
Jo Anne Valentine Simson: Thanks for your response. I know what you mean about the dross. And the memoir.
I too have a ton of filled journals and have wondered what to do with them in a future after I am gone. I can't destroy them now in my 60's because I use them for my writing projects. And like another commenter mentioned, the good stuff is mixed in with the negative stuff.
I enjoyed reading my late mother's journals but my sister was hurt by a few bad comments. I hate the idea of someone taking my words out of context and being wounded by them.
Cate Warren, what a powerful story about your friend. Very moving. Thank you for sharing.
Bella, I have the same dilema. I don't have children, and have given my husband instructions to hand my journals to my best friend, as they contain a lot of spilled feelings that belong only on the pages. Like you, my journals are where I work things out. My husband could be hurt by reading my entries, especially if he's reading it and I'm not there to explain. To avoid that possibility, I've thought about throwing them on a bonfire, as I've heard other writers do, but I can't bear that idea. There's too much material in there, among the boring pages.
My mother didn't write in journals, nor my father, and they are both gone now. Every scrap of paper I now have (recipes, instructions) written in their hand is now precious to me. It contains a smidge of their energy, and just seeing it is a door to memory.
My mother found my senior year high school journal. I thought how fun it will be to read it. Wrong. I was one depressed girl. But, I grew from that experience when I read it in my forties. I have kept journals that I write in sporadically. I have kept a journal for the past year that I write in daily. It's healing and mostly boring, but I was hurt recently and my true feelings are written in ink. End result - I have told my family if they want to know who I really was, read the journals. If they decide to, they will survive and possibly grow from the experience. I too miss my mother so much and wish she had left some written form behind to have known her better.
Currently my journals are in boxes in the basement. However, my husband also has the instruction to destroy them when I pass away. I now view my recently completed memoir as a gift to my daughters, so they will hopefully not have the need to read my journals.
Bella, Yes I do have three daughters and six grandchildren (five of them boys). My daughters are all very busy women and the boys are not likely to want to read Grandma's journals. Maybe a great- or great-great-grandchild might want to. I'm currently working on a memoir for the family, so they shouldn't have to plow through all the dross in the journals if they want to find out about my life before they were born.
Jo Anne Valentine Simson: May I ask if you have children? It's interesting to me that you don't think anyone would want to read your journals. As I wrote in this post, after my mom died, I yearned to hear her voice. If you have kids, I'd love to know why you think they wouldn't be interested in reading your journals. But perhaps this is too personal a question. If so, I apologize. I'm trying to figure out where I stand here. Thanks for reading and sharing!
My journals, begun at age thirteen over a big impossible crush, have continued to serve as a sounding board for my griefs and frustrations--much more pain there than joy, I think. But then there are long stretches of time with nothing written, so I was probably either happy or very busy during those periods. And I've kept journals during travels, when there was time on trains and planes to remember, reflect and muse. I don't want the journals destroyed, and I doubt anyone will want to read through them. Perhaps some great-grandchild might find it interesting to read what someone thought and did during a past century.
Wow, Cate Warren, thank you. What an amazing story about your friend! And I'm sorry. It's sad. But how lovely that she left that writing behind.
I like what you've written in your will. Maybe I'll do that too!
Thanks for reading and sharing!