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Keeping a notebook or diary is easy to dismiss. I often hear people tell me that it’s OK for other people but it’s not for them. I always find this stance curious as the habit of keeping a notebook is common amongst exceptional people who not only take the time to report their struggles and feelings but also review them across time. As I was doing research, a friend of mine pointed me towards a Joan Didion essay, On Keeping A Notebook, that appears in Slouching Towards Bethlehem, a collection of her essays.
Written long ago, the 1960s I think, the essay is still relevant today. In fact, you could make an argument that in the world of blogging and twitter, the essay is more relevant than ever.
An Adobe PDF of How to Construct a Basic Body Paragraph. In her essay On Keeping a Notebook, Didion discusses how the purpose of keeping a.Find and follow posts tagged on keeping a notebook on Tumblr. Joan Didion, ok health check pdf On Keeping a Notebook, writing at the age of twenty-seven. On Keeping a Notebook by Joan Didion In her essay “On Keeping a Notebook,” Joan Didion describes why she thinks it’s a good idea to make a record of the things that capture your attention and your attitude towards these things.
Reading an arbitrary entry from her notebook, “that woman Estelle is partly the reason why George Sharp and I are separated today,” Didion goes on to wonder …
Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
The point of keeping a notebook, then:
So the point of my keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factual record of what I have been doing or thinking. That would be a different impulse entirely, an instinct for reality which I sometimes envy but do not possess.
Recalling her failure to keep a keep a diary she touches on our ability to shape memories while we codify them.
At no point have I ever been able successfully to keep a diary; my approach to daily life ranges from the grossly negligent to the merely absent, and on those few occasions when I have tried dutifully to record a day’s events, boredom has so overcome me that the results are mysterious at best … In fact I have abandoned altogether that kind of pointless entry; instead I tell what some would call lies. “That’s simply not true,” the members of my family frequently tell me when they come up against my memory of a shared event. “The party was not for you, the spider was not a black widow, it wasn’t that way at all.” Very likely they are right, for not only have I always had trouble distinguishing between what happened and what merely might have happened, but I remain unconvinced that the distinction, for my purposes, matters.
But if the boredom of daily events doesn’t matter, what does?
How it felt to me: that is getting closer to the truth about a notebook. I sometimes delude myself about why I keep a notebook, imagine that some thrifty virtue derives from preserving everything observed. See enough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning when the world seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only going through the motions of doing what I am supposed to do, which is write — on that bankrupt morning I will simply open my notebook and there it will all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest, paid passage back to the world out there: dialogue overheard in hotels and elevators and at the hat-check counter in Pavillon (one middle-aged man shows his hat check to another and says, ‘That’s my old football number’); impressions of Bettina Aptheker and Benjamin Sonnenberg and Teddy (‘Mr. Acapulco’) Stauffer; careful aperçus about tennis bums and failed fashion models and Greek shipping heiresses, one of whom taught me a significant lesson (a lesson I could have learned from F. Scott Fitzgerald, but perhaps we all must meet the very rich for ourselves) by asking, when I arrived to interview her in her orchid-filled sitting room on the second day of a paralyzing New York blizzard, whether it was snowing outside.
I imagine, in other words, that the notebook is about other people. But of course it is not. I have no real business with what one stranger said to another at the hat-check counter in Pavillon; in fact I suspect that the line ‘That’s my old football number’ touched not my own imagination at all, but merely some memory of something once read, probably ‘The Eighty-Yard Run.’ Nor is my concern with a woman in a dirty crepe-de-Chine wrapper in a Wilmington bar. My stake is always, of course, in the unmentioned girl in the plaid silk dress. Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.
It is a difficult point to admit. We are brought up in the ethic that others, any others, all others, are by definition more interesting than ourselves; taught to be diffident, just this side of self-effacing.(‘You’re the least important person in the room and don’t forget it,’ Jessica Mitford’s governess would hiss in her ear on the advent of any social occasion; I copied that into my notebook because it is only recently that I have been able to enter a room without hearing some such phrase in my inner ear.) Only the very young and the very old may recount their dreams at breakfast, dwell upon self, interrupt with memories of beach picnics and favorite Liberty lawn dresses and the rainbow trout in a creek near Colorado Springs. The rest of us are expected, rightly, to affect absorption in other people’s favorite dresses, other people’s trout.
“… not only have I always had trouble distinguishing between what happened and what merely might have happened, but I remain unconvinced that the distinction, for my purposes, matters.”
— Joan Didion
I think for Didion her notebook was an escape. She was “brought up in the ethic that others, any others, all others, (were) by definition more interesting than (her).” The notebook was an escape.
[O]ur notebooks give us away, for however dutifully we record what we see around us, the common denominator of all we see is always, transparently, shamelessly, the implacable “I.” … [W]e are talking about something private, about bits of the mind’s string too short to use, an indiscriminate and erratic assemblage with meaning only for its maker.
In the end, the deepest value of notebooks to her was not to remember the line but the memory, “I should remember the woman who said it and the afternoon I heard it.” To reconnect with another iteration of herself.To prevent selective recall
Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in having one’s self back in that kind of mood, but I do see it; I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be; one of them, a seventeen-year-old, presents little threat, although it would be of some interest to me to know again what it feels like to sit on a river levee drinking vodka-and-orange-juice and listening to Les Paul and Mary Ford and their echoes sing “How High the Moon” on the car radio. (You see I still have the scenes, but I no longer perceive myself among those present, no longer could even improvise the dialogue.)
[…]
It is a good idea, then, to keep in touch, and I suppose that keeping in touch is what notebooks are all about. And we are all on our own when it comes to keeping those lines open to ourselves: your notebook will never help me, nor mine you.
Notebooks, diary’s, journals or whatever you want to call them are a powerful habit.
Like so much of what I read, I’m new to Didion. Slouching Towards Bethlehem, her first work of non-fiction, is interesting throughout.
Thanks to Nina Lacour’s podcast On Keeping a Notebook, I’ve been reconsidering my previous animosity for Joan Didion. I read The Year of Magical Thinking a few years ago and found Didion to be wholly unrelatable to me by living such a wealthy life in New York City. But Lacour’s allusions to Didion’s essay On Keeping a Notebook had me curious to try again. Besides – Didion is one of the leading essayists of our time and if I want to practice these skills then I may as well study the masters, right?
On Keeping a Notebook can be found in Slouching Towards Bethlehem, a book of essays published in the 60s. The essay is full of random jottings that she’s written over the years and an effort to understand why some of us are compelled to keep notebooks and fading memories — especially when many of those memories are the lies we tell ourselves.
“Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”
On Keeping a NotebookWould you agree with this thought? I think I might, especially ‘children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.’ I think often about my own notebook – I think about whether its value in my life is truly as great as I perceive it, whether it’s all just a waste of time, and whether it actually helps me at all. Sometimes I think it’s just a giant dump of feelings that only allow me to wallow. But I know that without that space to wallow, the feelings start to eek out of every pore and into every corner I find myself in. Those feelings need some place to go. Why not my notebook?
Since reading Harriet the Spy in the sixth grade, I’ve been obsessed with keeping notebooks. Some phases of my life have been more successful than others and I’ve always been plagued with self-doubt about my worthiness of deserving a notebook. I was taught growing up that everyone around me thought they were better than me — a survival skill of my parents that did not serve me well, to say the least — so what was so special about me? Who did I think I was to keep such a record? My thoughts did not and would not ever matter to anyone else.
And even if that were true – that my thoughts would never matter to anyone else – Didion argues that our notebooks are only for us anyway. To stay acquainted with all of our previous selves is the best gift we can give ourselves.
“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door…”
On Keeping a NotebookJoan Didion Official Site
Of course, I’ve done a lot of work since leaving home to restructure my self-talk. I no longer believe that every single person around me thinks they’re better than me and is out to get me. And I can thank my notebooks for a lot of that work. I still glance through my morning pages and snort at what a self-absorbed twit I can be and catch myself thinking who do I think I am? And then those thoughts go into my next round of morning pages and I do my best to give it to the page and let them go, for at least one more day.
This morning I wrote in my notebook that I thought my 80 year old self would look back and laugh at a line I had just wrote. Wouldn’t it be something to make it to 80 years old and have pages and pages and pages of my weird thoughts all lined up on a shelf somewhere? And I agree with Didion – what was my 15 year old self thinking this time 20 years ago? I don’t have a record of that. But 20 years from now, I’ll have a record for my 55 year old self to look back on, and that’s a comforting thought. I hope I do look back and laugh at all of my worries and insecurities and know that everything always works out fine. Electronic workbench 5.12 free download. What a thought! A wish!
Joan Didion On Keeping A Notebook Essay
I enjoyed this essay a lot more than I thought I would and am looking forward to more Didion essays; I’m glad I gave her another shot! I’ll try to make my way through this collection and dig into my thoughts about them as I go along.
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