Writing Something That Stays

Book club was wrapping up, and we were reflecting on the themes of writing and memory. We landed on the topic of journaling, and in a moment of vulnerability I mentioned that I throw out my journals after I write them. I was met with gasps, tears, stones, and damnation. I would recall a quip from that night’s journal entry, but those thoughts are rotting in Morrisville, PA while cursing the cruelty of their creator.

In Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead, Reverend John Ames notes that he has written over 2,250 sermons, “Then I’ve written two hundred twenty-five books, which puts me up there with Augustine and Calvin for quantity. That’s amazing”. Greater than his amazement is his fear that the overflowing boxes will be a burden to his family upon his impending death. He asks his wife to burn them all.

The Reverend’s fears manifest Zadie Smith’s The Fraud, where William Ainsworth stores a lifetime of failed literary attempts in the attic to detriment of home’s structural integrity. Young repairman Joseph isn’t the brightest boy, but he intuits better than the patriarch as he stares into the gaping hole in the second floor study: “The sheer weight of literature you’ve got here, well, that will put a terrible strain on a house, Mrs Touchet. Terrible strain.”

I’d like to think my habit comes from style rather than fear, thoughts blazing like Molly Weasley’s deafening Howler in the Chamber of Secrets. Because how dare Ron steal that car; and Ginny dear, congratulations on making Gryffindor. The red envelope burns a satisfying orange, then yellow, then black. That is the flourish with which I imagine all my musings end.

The alternative to this satisfying crisp is a cool malaise in the back of a container store metal shelf from facebook marketplace. This half off and yet still overpriced track is where the racing thoughts of six months ago compete with the racing thoughts of today like ghost mode in mario kart. Do these entries provide perspective, or only unhelpful comparison?

Which thoughts are worth keeping, which belong hidden in sock drawers, and which become the ash that coats a second year’s Sunday roast? What is the effect that piles of old experiences have on its writer, and do the upsides pull their weight to cover the rent in your Brooklyn apartment? When does nostalgia become noxious?

In an act of noble self-experimentation and self-involvement on par with Curtis Connors and Henry Jekyll, I am going to write about my experiences. Tech, music, reading, and whatever else is causing the precarious warping under my living room rug. Terrible strain.