(5 Tips for Figuring Out the Structure of Your Memoir.)

Moving up the family tree and to a shelf above my desk, another box file contains material generated by my father, but recorded by his mother, my Russian Jewish grandmother Anna Gendel. Anna’s handwritten account of growing up in the shtetl of Kurnitz near Minsk, and her life as an immigrant to New York was recorded at Milton’s request in the late 1950s and then typed up by my mother, the British aristocrat Judy Montagu. It is vibrant and spirited, a highlight being the account of Anna’s arrest after defending demonstrators on the picket line of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Strike in 1911.

A sideways shift to Judy whose service in the British Army as an officer in the anti-aircraft batteries can be traced through the lively correspondence between 20-year-old Captain Montagu on the front line of World War II and her mother, Venetia. One of the most remarkable letters sees Judy sipping a cup of tea in Reading when a German airplane, a Junkers drops a “Bomb! Bomb! Bomb!” Her actions in helping the shocked and wounded led to her commendation for bravery.

Venetia, whose maiden name was Stanley, has earned a place in the history books and bestseller lists for her own letter exchange with Prime Minister H.H. Asquith during the First War. At the height of their affair Asquith would write to my grandmother several times a day, from cabinet meetings often revealing state secrets. These indiscrete and fascinating missives are now kept at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, but my family archive still contains papers relating to this historic exchange of letters, some as recently as 2024 when Robert Harris wrote about the relationship in his novel Precipice, one of 10 million books sold by this master of historical fiction.

Over the last few years the archive has been central to the publication of my mother Judy Montagu’s Greyhound Diary (Zulieka Books, 2025). The diary itself was the first part of my own archive, handed over by my father in 2000, in the same format as was typed up during Judy’s three-month, 9,000-mile tour of the US in 1949. To make the most of the diary, itself a well-written, often hilarious account of adventures such as riding in a Texan rodeo, tea with Mary Pickford in Hollywood, or the love affair with Governor Adlai Stevenson which started at the end of her journey, it needed an introduction and footnotes. Filed at home under ‘Stevenson, Adlai’ were letters of such tenderness that the romance was clear. A visit to Springfield, Illinois, and the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library where Governor Stevenson’s papers are held confirmed what my home archive had suggested.

Any treasured document of family history, given the right presentation, the correct context, is valuable. All it takes is research to discover the relationships a letter might describe, and the historical and geographical situation of its time. Even if the material you have is not hugely exciting, you can make it so by the way you present it and the narrative arc you conceive. This will be based on the highs and lows of your family’s life, the life-changing events that we all enjoy or endure. Moreover, databases such as Ancestry’s can support your own archive with public records to enhance a story about military service or a disputed legacy, or the birth of longed-for children.

The first step is to file your material so that you know where to find it. Depending on how many documents you have this may also be the moment to scan them; digitalized material is searchable. The most problematic issue in publishing may be gaining the agreement of family members if you have delicate or private material. Much of my archive will have to be kept sealed for some years to protect familial sensitivities. Here you will have to employ your greatest diplomatic skills to imply rather than reveal. Last of all, the physical qualities of old cards, photographs, old-fashioned handwriting can be compelling, and can make for fascinating illustrations to the way you write up your family history.

Check out Judy Montagu’s The Greyhound Diary here:

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(Learning to Take Up Space as a Writer.)

Through those travels I learned to fight the fear that was holding me back and do it anyway. I learned that my journeys throughout the beautiful Irish countryside gave me the self-confidence I desperately needed to move forward.

I could have traveled anywhere, but I chose Ireland as my destination because my study of Celtic spirituality, history, literature, and music convinced me that Ireland was my spiritual home. I devoured books by my favorite Irish writers––William Butler Yeats, James Joyce, and Seamus Heaney, among others––as well as memoirs by Niall Williams and Pete McCarthy. While listening to my favorite Irish musicians, I longed to tap my feet to live Irish music in a cozy pub while sipping an Irish coffee.

After months of sitting at my computer in my pj’s doing research, I made travel plans for “fly and drive” packages that included airfare, car rental, and travel vouchers for farmhouse bed and breakfasts. I preferred the freedom of traveling alone on my own schedule as opposed to a group bus tour of popular tourist spots. I wanted to see the real Ireland, get to know its people and immerse myself in its rich culture of music, pub life, and natural beauty.

My research told me that Ireland was a safe place for women to travel alone, notwithstanding of course the universal travel necessity of being on guard and aware of one’s surroundings. Not having any language barrier, other than Gaelic street signs in some regions and thick Irish accents in the more rural areas, gave Ireland an advantage over non-English-speaking countries.

However, no amount of research could have prepared me for the terrifying experience of driving on Ireland’s narrow, curvy roads. No driving instructions were given at the car rental place. I was handed the keys and let loose. Not only did I have to learn to stay on the other side of the road, but after one mishap with shouts of “Woman, yer going the wrong way!” I learned to enter a roundabout clockwise instead of counterclockwise.

In the days before GPS became the norm, I was both the driver and the navigator. I taped directions to my dashboard, hoping for the best, but I still had to make frequent stops to ask for assistance and to verify that I was on the correct road. One time I was saved by a dairy delivery driver when I took the wrong exit and got lost in the foothills of the Brendan Mountains in County Kerry. Driving became less frantic with each visit, but it continued to require my full attention and left me exhausted. Still, I wouldn’t have done it any other way.

I kept a journal during my travels and made myself write in it every day whether I felt like it or not. Again, I didn’t know that I would be using those journals as a primary source for my memoir, but I sensed that my journey was a life-changing event that should be recorded. Nothing fancy, just a notebook for each trip and some ballpoint pens.

Those journals proved to be invaluable while writing my memoir. I can’t imagine how arduous the writing process would have been without them. I also researched the places I had visited for historical background. I didn’t take a laptop with me until my last trip when I was on a writing retreat and also editing photos. Instead, I stopped at internet cafes to post about my journey and to communicate with family and friends back home.

Through many moments of synchronicity I was introduced to new friends who lived in Ireland or traveled there frequently. Many of the most memorable scenes in my memoir are about visits with these gracious souls who continue to be a source of inspiration and friendship. My memoir would be dull without them. I contacted these friends frequently when I experienced memory lapses for information that my journals couldn’t provide, such as correct spellings of names and places. I changed the names of those not already in the public eye in order to protect their privacy. I sent advanced reader copies to those who were well-known so that they would have a heads up on what was coming. I didn’t want any surprises or misunderstandings. Fortunately, I haven’t received any negative feedback so far.

In the years following my Irish excursions I took writing classes and attended conferences at both the Indiana Writers Center and the Midwest Writers Workshop. One of my most memorable classes was at the IWC with writer Dan Wakefield. Having recently relocated to his hometown of Indianapolis, Dan spent his final years teaching and regaling us with stories about his friendships with Kurt Vonnegut and James Baldwin. He was an exceptional teacher and mentor, and I will be forever grateful to him for making me a better writer.

Another life-changing moment came when, on the recommendation of a writer friend, I attended the Haven Writing Retreats in Montana. Led by bestselling author and teacher extraordinaire, Laura Munson, these small workshops brought me into a community of writers who have been integral in supporting me on my writing journey. I’ve maintained friendships with many of them and a small group of us meet monthly on Zoom to discuss and critique one another’s work. They continue to be my cheerleaders and beta readers. Laura was the first to recognize that a series of essays I had written about my Irish adventures was actually a memoir and that I should “dig deeper.” She became my editor and trusted friend and introduced me to Brooke Warner, founder of She Writes Press, who would later become my publisher. Brooke and her exceptional staff at SWP are always there to take my hand and lead me along the often-harrowing maze of book publishing.

Writing a book is often a lonely pursuit filled with negative self-talk and lingering doubt about one’s writing ability. I am grateful that I remained open to new experiences and fortunate to have found a supportive writing community. I believe that in order to guide one’s book to the finish line, such a support system is crucial. Indeed, it does take a village to write a book.

Check out Diane Hartman’s Getting Lost on My Way here:

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“The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become invisible,” Vladimir Nabokov said, seductively.

“You must not come lightly to the blank page,” Stephen King said, cautioningly.

When I was not yet a teen, I was given a blank journal—crisp white interior pages, black naugahyde covers. I was terrified. What was I to do with this? A sketch? A story? A list? A pen? A pencil? A brush? I circled the thing for a couple of days. Finally I decided: I’d turn all the naked white pages into color, paint every single one with a watery mix of hues. By the time I was done the journal was pure bloat, its signatures buckled and distorted, the whole thing looking, from the side, like so many technicolor waves trying to make their way to shore.

(A Love Letter to the Fountain Pen.)

But now the pages weren’t (I told myself) blank and so (it seemed so obvious) I could write in them—terribly juvenile poems in inconsistently slanted script that was at least a half-inch tall. They were my jottings, nonetheless. They became my practice.

Later, after college, my trade was words. Brochure copy for architectural firms. Speeches for compensation consultants. Stories about risk and insurance. Corporate vision statements. Annual reports. Employee magazines. Patient stories. Ghosted books. And, for a side of something different, poems, short stories, and increasingly essays written in the crevices between the work that paid the bills and the mother I’d become. There wasn’t time, anymore, to be terrified, and so I gave the blank page less and less thought—just grabbed whatever pad or notebook or journal I could find and wrote with any pen.

All of that changed three years ago, when my father passed away. I was allowed to be there for his final raw hour. I had been precluded, by Covid, from spending time with him in the endless months before. It is a familiar story, but that doesn’t change how bad it feels—how the ache knells inside your bones and the regrets settle in as everlasting. Suddenly everything around me seemed blank—blank skies, blank hope, blank pages.

Now, however, I craved the quiet. I honored the paper just as it was—its distant smell of something woodsy, its knife-like edges. I could, I discovered in all the hours I wasn’t sleeping, fold it, crease it, forge a cover, stitch it, and it would be enough just as it was—the haunt alongside the promise, life in equipoise.

There are, I soon learned by way of slippery trial and error, as many ways to make a blank book as there are ways to write a story. At first my blank books were mere booklets—crisply bone-folded card stock featuring a geometric arrangement of gelli print art on the front cover and a single chain-stitched signature within. I made hundreds of these and mailed them out to my father’s friends and mine. Remember him, I said. There was room, on those blank pages.

Thin sheets of cork, I discovered, could make for fine book cover material. It was soft, it was durable, it was potentially capacious, it offered a home to multiple signatures and far more sheets of crisply folded paper. Upcycled leather—debossed by the blue ray of my husband’s laser—could be fashioned into a rugged enclosure for the signatures I’d cut one day and press the next beneath the weight of my hefty dictionaries. Khadi paper, with its lovely deckle, could be used as a frame for dried-flower art and punched, forming a cover for the rectangular 60-pound interior pages that I’d bind in with a traditional Japanese stitch. Gessoed canvas could be used to wrap a journal-stitched book; it could be decorated with the collages I had begun to make out of ephemera, exotic paper, a line or two extracted from the antique books I began to collect.

By which I mean Paul Horgan’s books. And Virginia Woolf’s. And the fairytales of the Brothers Grimm and old books for gardeners and cooks. I’d scour the pages for lines that might be interesting, encouraging, or delightfully strange, slice them out of context with my freshly screwed-in X-Acto blade, and PVC them to the cover art—a prompt of sorts, a setting of the stage for the blank pages that, inside, waited.

Waited for another.

Waited beyond my own capacity for words.

Waited not to terrify, but to appeal, suggest, seduce.

Check out Beth Kephart’s My Life in Paper here:

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In time I learned to wrap hard pieces of board with paper I marbled, or paper I cyanotyped, or the Hanji paper I had stained with the avocado pits or red onion skins or dandelion buds that I had (in a messy operation weeks before) collected and steamed. I practiced the Coptic stitch until it was finally easy for me, then combined that stitch with a soft French Link to make books whose bindings treated the blank paper within with the respect that it deserves.

Sometimes my endpapers were made of paper I’d fashioned by tearing up my own books and stealing flowers from my own garden. Sometimes my endpapers were gelli prints over which I had painted a chemical solution known as Solar Fast, then left in the sun to produce a richer color.

Each blank book was, and is, sui generis. Each blank book took, and still takes, hours. Each blank book contains a story or a list or a sketch that I will never write or draw, because I make these blank books for others. I send them to friends. I sell them at a local farmers market and online. I think of them as the parts of me that require no words, the parts of me that will, I’ve come to understand, be everlastingly healing. 

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(How Poetry and Journalism Intersect for Me)

It just sits there on your bedside table covered in dust, staring at you like an old golden retriever that really wants to go for a nice long walk in the woods. Enter: shame. Which is never any sort of motivation to inspire the written word. Quite the opposite.

Maybe you don’t even have a journal anymore. Maybe you never did—the whole idea of pouring out your heart-and-soul language on the page is too daunting. For all of you word-wanderers out there, take heart: I have a theory and a practice and I believe they both will help you say what you really need to say on the page and in your life. I call it So Now What Journal Writing.

Dusting Off the Personal Journal

When COVID hit the U.S., I was in the middle of a cross-country book tour, all revved up for 38 more events. Instead, like so many of us, I did a 180: I went home, bought rice and beans, and sat dumbfounded in my living room thinking how can I help the cause? What do I know how to do that will be a lifeline for people in this massively challenging time? Which meant that I needed my journal to sort it all out— my oldest soulmate that had become something less in recent history. I wasn’t sure why. Enter again: shame. But when our life is falling apart, we reach for what we need. At least, I hope we do.

So I found my journal, blew off the dust, and turned to the endless possibility of the blank page—thinking that a global pandemic would be just the thing to get me back into this once-loved practice. But I quickly found that my brain was too scattered and scared.

The book I’d spent eight years writing had been robbed of the promotion I’d worked so hard to organize. My writing retreats and workshops were suddenly all on pause. My empty nest was suddenly full of my adult children who needed their mother. My life was up-ended in silver linings and dark gloom all at once. I’m sure you can relate somehow.

So I started writing … but my pen just circled in a vortex of woe in thought patterns that didn’t serve me in the least. In fact, these thought patterns were sabotaging any hope for well-being, never mind self-care. And I found myself staring at the ceiling, not at all full of the relief or inspiration that journaling had once provided. I needed a new way.

Art imitates life and life imitates art, and at that moment, the words of my novel’s protagonist came to me. She, as well as the other three women in the novel, are also at major crossroads in their lives. And they use writing to help them find the answer to the question the whole world was collectively asking: So Now What? I took their lead.

So Now What Journal Writing

I asked three powerful questions for three categories: What do I want to let go of? What do I want to embrace right now? And what do I want to create going forward in my life? Shedding the past, embracing my present, and dreaming my future alive felt good. Those categories felt doable. But how to approach them did not. I was sure of overwhelm. In fact, I was scared of my words when it came to the re-shaping of my life.

Then I had an idea: Instead of just letting my pen flow endlessly into these categories, I would divide up the process between Writer mode and Observer mode and give myself a limited allotment of writing time. How about three minutes?

I chose the first category, Shedding the past, set my timer, and let the words flow, beginning with this phrase: What I really want to say. When my timer went off, I raised my pen mid-sentence and went into Observer mode, asking myself: Is this thought pattern serving me? The answer was No. Not at all. In fact, my thoughts were poison. Familiar poison.

Is this what my mind acted like all the time? I consider myself a highly aware person. I wrote a whole memoir about the concept of mind-awareness. I’ve given speeches to thousands about this subject. And here I was in the utter gloom of self-sabotage. Had the loss of my journaling practice contributed to me forgetting my own message? Had my negative thought patterns become so habituated that I’d become their prisoner? I wanted my thoughts to serve me, didn’t I?

Things needed to change and fast. Especially in the midst of a global pandemic and temporary career loss, I couldn’t risk not having my journal close and at the ready. But I needed a new hunger for it. Which meant that I needed to readjust my practice.

(Keeping the Writing Faith: 6 Ways to Keep Your Novel on Track With a Process Journal)

Personal Writing Is Good for the Soul

So instead of berating myself for how I was in my own way when it came to letting go, I kindly went back to What I really want to say and let it flow for another three minutes. The timer went off, I lifted my pen, and again asked myself: Is this thought pattern serving me? Still … the answer was an emphatic No. BUT there was a spark of new awareness and that’s what mattered.

I did it one more time. Closer. Nine minutes to new self-awareness? I called that good.

Then I moved on to the next category: What can I embrace right now? If the answer was yes to the question: Is this thought pattern serving me, then I just kept riffing for the next three minutes. If not, then I went lovingly back to What I really want to say. Rinse repeat for another nine minutes.

Then onto the last: What can I create going forward in my life? This one was actually fun. What can I create is the most powerful question I know. I got playful. I got curious. I got light and even joyful.

By the end of these 27 minutes, I realized that I had landed on something of deep value. And there was my answer to how I could help people through this unimaginable time in our modern world. And So Now What Journal Writing was born.

(The Power of Journaling)

Creating Time and Community

Every Friday from mid-March, 2020 until June 2021 (with the exception of three times, one of which was Christmas), I led a one-hour live free Zoom So Now What Journal Writing practice using this protocol. Over 700 people signed up over the course of those months, many of whom came every single week. It became people’s weekly lifeline. It gave them focus and grounding in a time of extreme disorientation. People tuned in from all over the world. Oftentimes, I did it too, along with the group, for my own sanity.

This is how I journal now. I have a three-minute “hour” glass that makes me happier than a cell phone timer going off. I write all the way to the last minute, even when I don’t want to. Especially when I don’t want to.

After our last session, I received this email:

You held a sacred space for so many people during the pandemic and for me that was life-changing. I was able to take a deep dive into ME, to dream and take action. I came into the journaling sessions wanting to quit my job and left last week with the realization that I bring beauty, peace, joy, my Self into whatever I’m doing. I don’t have to leave, I can stay and create what I need right there in the job I thought I hated. I will miss our Friday night interludes, but I’m so grateful for the experience. Now the world shifts and we can start to resume our lives. I have the intention of taking everything that I learned this past year with me to create a life of presence, awareness, clarity, and peace. A million times thank you for our Friday nights. I wish you all the best and hope to see you sometime in Montana on one of your retreats. They sound amazing!! — Lori, Buffalo, NY

The pandemic isn’t over, but with the vaccine, people can be more confident about traveling and gathering. The pause button is lifted. Haven Writing Retreats in Montana are back this fall. But I will continue journaling in this way and I hope that others will too, including you. I’m friends with my journal again. It’s anything but dusty. Sometimes it takes a major upheaval to find an old, and very important, soul mate. 

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I have a confession: I’m all-in at the beginning of writing a novel, but then I’m prone to bouts of intense writer’s block after the honeymoon is over. The middle is where I meet up with my old pals resistance, self-doubt, and the “what next?” blues.

My secret weapon for combatting writer’s block at any stage, and often avoiding it altogether, is the process journal. This isn’t a term I made up, and it means different things to different writers. Generally, this notebook is a place to free-write about different aspects of plot, character development and structure—off the sacred pages of your manuscript.

I tend to take a long time to finish a novel. I spent eleven years working on my debut novel, In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills, including numerous breaks from two weeks to two years long. My process journal is a series of exercises I’ve fashioned over the years, drawing on what I’ve learned from workshops and craft books. It provides me with an organized road map of where my WIP has been, where it’s headed, and possible side roads to explore.

Here are six ways using a process journal can stave off writers block and keep your WIP on-track:

1. Keep track of the basics.

While your protagonist, antagonist and supporting cast of characters will grow over time, the basics of their personalities and personal growth should remain consistent. That’s the foundation of plot. Your protagonist’s basic personality traits are formed and expressed through: desire, initial plan, critical weakness that makes that plan fall apart, and “superpower” that becomes stronger toward the middle of the story. Writing these and other qualities down for easy reference can be extremely helpful.

2. Kick-start your writing session.

I write in my WIP process journal every morning, before I turn on my computer, even if only for five minutes. I track character development, diagram the relationships between characters and the trajectory of plot lines, or gripe about a character who is driving me crazy (and figure out why. I always end my writing warm-up session with a question: What is it I want to accomplish next?

3. Brainstorm with your characters.

One big cause of writer’s block is the fear of the unknown. So why not enlist one of your characters to help out? Try the “what if…” game next time you’re stuck: Choose a character and write down ten “what if” questions off the top of your head, as quickly as possible. Then, set the time for five minutes to address each question/scenario in the voice of your character.

4. Keep your WIP at your fingertips.

Sometimes I can trick writer’s block by simply leaving my office for a few hours to go on a walk or meet a friend for coffee. Even though I sometimes jot down quick notes on my phone or a napkin, I try to slip my process journal in my purse and take it with me wherever I go. It’s nice to have one central home where all thing relating to my novel in process live.

5. Chart your progress.

Each night before I turn out the lights, I spend five minutes summing up what I accomplished during that day and where I’ll pick things up the next morning. This helps to stave off the sometimes horrible feeling of waking up to an empty slate.

6. Calm your mind

Finally, a big benefit of keeping a process journal is that writing by hand is good for the brain. According to Claudia Aguirre, M.D., a neuroscientist and mind-body expert, mindful writing rests the brain, potentially sparking creativity. Additionally, magnetic resonance imaging of the brain has shown that writing by hand increases neural activity in certain sections of the brain much like meditation.

Write Smart, Write Happy: How to Become a More Productive, Resilient, and Successful Writer

You have everything you need as a writer—it lies within, in the form of consistency and self-confidence. With Write Smart, Write Happy, best-selling author Cheryl St. John will help you unlock your skills, guiding you to overcome every hesitation, obstacle, form of writer’s block, and procrastination habit you have. Get a copy here.

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It’s okay not to keep a journal. Like cilantro or Gwyneth Paltrow, writing in a journal simply isn’t for everyone—and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Order a copy of Kendra Levin’s The Hero Is You: Sharpen Your Focus, Conquer Your Demons, and Become the Writer You Were Born to Be.

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But if you’re one of those writers who’s been meaning to start a journal for years but doesn’t get inspired by the idea of stream-of-consciousness-ing your thoughts each day, you may not have found the right format for you.

Here are five ways to keep a journal that are especially suited to writers:

1. Do it Steinbeck-style

When writing The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck kept a journal chronicling his progress on the novel. Each time he sat down to work, he’d also record his experiences—his hopes, fears, anxieties, and so on—in the journal, which functioned as a kind of companion to his manuscript. Learn more about his journal, which came to be called Working Days, here or even read the journal yourself. Try keeping a journal that you write a few sentences in each time you sit down to work.

2. Big-picture it

Potter Style makes a journal called Q&A a Day that asks you a different question every day. The prompts are fun, but what makes this type of journal interesting is that you use it for five years. So not only do you answer a question each day, but you also get to see what your answers were in the past. This provides a zoomed-out perspective, and the fact that you get a reading and writing experience puts your brain to work in different ways than if you were only jotting down your thoughts. You can buy this kind of journal pre-made or DIY with a blank book or digital doc.

3. Tweet a poem

If short-form is your preferred writing style, Twitter is your friend—and so is capsule journal writing. Boil each day into one pithy sentence (no character-counting required) that sums up everything you want to remember or express about the past twenty-four hours. At the end of each week, combine all the sentences—feel free to rearrange as needed—to create a poem. By the end of the year, you’ll have a collection of fifty-two poems.

4. Keywords

If your reaction to the idea of keeping a journal is, Hey, I already spend all day writing—the last thing I need is one more assignment! then this one might be for you. Take a few minutes to think about the past twenty-four hours or seven days. As you contemplate your recent experiences, jot down any relevant words or phrases pop into your mind without trying to connect them to one another. In this adaptation of the psychoanalytic method of free association, there are no rules except to write down whatever comes into your head. If you keep this type of journal digitally, it can be revealing to use a word cloud tool to see what words come up most frequently for you during certain periods of your life.

5. Snapshots

Try choosing one moment from your day or week to write about in your journal. It can be one of high emotion when something major happened, or one that was more introspective. What matters is that you describe your chosen moment with lots of detail, as if it were a scene in a work of fiction or memoir. Dig into your five senses and create a fully fleshed-out snapshot that takes your imaginary readers and places them right there.

If one of these methods appeals to you, start today. Don’t wait for the New Year or some other milestone. Some tips on how to get started:

Want to write in your journal every day? Do it at the same time as something you already do daily. Do you take a medication, supplement, or vitamin? Tie your journal to when you take it. Connecting your journal-writing habit to any daily habit will help you make it part of your routine. This is why many daily journal-keepers write first thing in the morning or right before bed.

Want to write in your journal once a week or once a month? Pick a day when you’re most likely to have a reliably consistent schedule, and block out as much time as you expect to need—I’d suggest ten minutes to an hour. Book that chunk of time in your calendar as a recurring event and set a reminder. Share your plan with an accountability partner and agree to hold each other to stick to these appointments.

Want to write in your journal once a year? Set aside at least an hour on a day that is meaningful to you—it might be the day before your birthday, or close to whatever New Year resonates most with you (Gregorian, Jewish, Chinese). Think about what you want this journal entry to be: retrospective, goal-oriented, creative? Search ahead of time for questions, prompts, or other nudges that give you a jumpstart. As a way to remind yourself to keep this tradition, send your journal entry as a timed email to arrive in your own inbox one year later.

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It’s a realization I came to not long ago. I’d never thought much about diaries until I was well into researching my latest book: The Point Is: Making Sense of Birth, Death, and Everything in Between. The book’s about how each of us, beginning a young age, begins collecting memories. And how, as if by magic, we build a story out of them—the story of our life, the narrative we carry in our heads. Just like a written story, it’s got a beginning, a middle, and eventually an end. Some chapters are happy, others we’d delete if we could. There are any number of turning points along the way.

This guest post is by Lee Eisenberg. Eisenberg is a New York Times bestselling author and the former editor-in-chief of Esquire Magazine. His latest book, The Point Is: Making Sense of Birth, Death, and Everything in Between, is available online and at bookstores now.

You can follow him on Twitter and Facebook. For more information, visit LeeEisenberg.com.

One day, grappling with how best to describe this miraculous process, I remembered that once in my life I’d kept a diary. Twenty-five years ago. I started keeping notes when our son was born, continuing on for two years until shortly after our daughter came along. I hadn’t looked at the document since. But when I searched my current hard drive, there it was, tucked away in an ancient folder: an 81-page Word document that had been transferred from desktop to laptop to desktop, accompanying me into and through middle-age. The instant I reopened the file, a clutch of memories sprang back to life: A day in a park on a lonely business trip abroad, when I watched a father with his young son and felt a profound longing to be back home with my own toddler who was about to take his first steps. Didn’t want to miss that. The name and face of a woman long-forgotten, who gently helped in the delivery of our daughter. These and other long-lost memories reminded me, in laser-sharp detail, just how rich and meaningful that chapter of my life story was.

Rediscovering that journal ushered in a fresh phase of research. A diary is yet another version of the life story that we carry in our heads. When revisited, it can help us decide whether the story’s been meaningful or not. You’d think, then, that more of us would keep a diary. But most people said no as I continued my book research. Some folks told me that they’ve thought about keeping a journal but don’t have the time. Others said they had nothing much to tell a diary: their day-to-day life was humdrum and besides, there were plenty of other places — Facebook, Instagram, Twitter — where they could offload half-baked thoughts at the drop of a hat. Keeping a journal and posting on social media, however, are two different things, I tried to point out. There’s also plenty of stuff that occurs to us that we’d rather not share with others. And there’s stuff we don’t fully understand and can’t easily put into words, which is reason enough to try and articulate them in the pages of a journal.

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These conversations about diaries cleared a path to my figuring out the last third of the book. In fact, the book closes with a quote from someone else’s diary, one that goes right to the heart of what makes life meaningful. I won’t spoil the ending, but I will say this: there’s now a 5″ x 8″ Moleskine notebook on my bedside table.

I’m keeping a journal. And you might do likewise, for at least five reasons:

1. A diary enables us to save for the future—precious memories, that is.

Joan Didion has said that she keeps a journal because she can’t bear the thought of wasting so much as “a single observation.” A “thrifty virtue,” she calls it. “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….”

2. A diary offers a clear view into not just who we are, but who we’re striving to be.

Critic Susan Sontag, whose posthumously published diaries recount in intimate detail her evolution as a lover and a public intellectual: “In the journal I do not just express myself more openly than I could do to any person; I create myself.”

3. A diary trains us to pay attention to the moment.

We’re all busy and distracted. Ideas, insights, and observations strike us when least expected, only to flicker and vanish in the course of a hectic day. Writing these moments down is akin to capturing lightning in a bottle. We thus become avid collectors of even minor strikes of lightning, day-after day.

4. A diary serves as an invaluable backup vault.

Studies show that we routinely and predictably underappreciate key events when they happen. And that events, when recalled in a different mood or another context, mean something entirely unexpected. The studies also show that the more ordinary an event seems at the time, the greater the likelihood that we’ll make an error in judgment about how meaningful it will turn out to be. If you’re a writer, an otherwise forgotten or underappreciated event can give rise to a great book idea or a compelling character.

5. A diary keeps the writing gears greased.

P.D. James, the great mystery novelist, said she never suffered from severe writer’s block, though sometimes she had to wait out a dry spell before nailing down the idea for a new book. While biding her time, James made it her habit to do some—little stuff, anything, if only to keep the wheels turning, as she put it. James described how she started keeping a diary—her one and only—when she was well into her seventies. She then published it: Time to Be in Earnest: A Fragment of Autobiography, which came out a few years before she died in 2004. In the prologue, James writes: “My motive now is to record just one year that otherwise might be lost, not only to children and grandchildren who might have an interest but, with the advance of age and perhaps the onset of the dreaded Alzheimer’s, lost also to me.”

But whether you’re a writer or not, a diary is an invaluable reference when we reach final chapters of our life story. It’s then that most of us, not just P.D. James, conduct what social scientists refer to as a “life review.” We replay our life story in an attempt to assure ourselves that our lives were meaningful. During this review, in the words of one gerontologist, “hidden themes of great vintage may emerge.” And the end, that’s exactly what a diary’s intended to do.

Other writing/publishing articles & links for you:

• Here are 10 questions you need to ask your characters.
• How to create an effective synopsis for your novel or memoir.
• Chapter 1 cliches and overused beginnings — see them all here.
• Here are 7 reasons writing a novel makes you awesome.
• New Agent Alerts: Click here to find agents who are currently seeking writers.
• Download a year’s worth of writing prompts right here.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift bookOh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
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The post What Every Writer Needs to Know about Keeping a Personal Diary appeared first on Writer's Digest.

This guest post is by Dana Lise Shavin, whose essays have appeared in Oxford American, The Writer, The Sun, Fourth Genre, Puerto del Sol, and others, and she is a lifestyle columnist for The Chattanooga Times Free Press. She is the author of a memoir, The Body Tourist (Little Feather Books). Learn more about her at Danashavin.com.

In early interviews, the questions I was most often asked were around the facts of my anorexia itself: How long did it take you to realize you were still ill? Why was it so hard for you to meet your basic needs?Where were your parents when it started? All of these were good avenues of inquiry, but along the way one interviewer asked a question which really stuck with me: “Was writing your book cathartic?”

To which I said both yes and no.

The yes part of my answer had to do with finally getting my story of brokenness and survival out of my head, onto the page, and into the world in the form of a book. I felt immeasurable relief at no longer being pregnant with my tale, or with the burning need to tell my tale. Story told, book published, I could move on. I could write other stories, focus on other goals, have other thoughts for that matter. Cathartic? You bet.

[Memoir or Novel? 8 Issues to Think About Before Writing Your Own Story]

The no part of my answer had to do with what I’d learned in the process of writing a book that dealt with painful issues, raw emotions, and no shortage of embarrassing personal details. I learned that the wish for catharsis may be what motivates us to write in the first place—the need to express something, to come to terms with feelings or emotions or events, to get something out of our system so that we can begin healing. But the process of it—the raw emoting, teeth-gnashing, and breast beating—is the province of our journals. On the other hand, writing—by which I mean the constructing, shaping, revising and refining of the story—which can take many years of focused study and work—is the province of craft.

We should be careful not to confuse the two. Otherwise we doubly lose out.

Think about it: if you were to write in your journal with an eye toward craft—paying attention to word choice, sentence construction, how to best recount the events of the day or the contents of your heart with the proper distance and narrative stance—you would lose the opportunity to muck around unfettered in the supreme muddiness of your own unrefined sentimentality, or thoroughly enjoyable lake of self-pity, or unbridled bitching or brainstorming. All of which can and often does lead to, or clear the way for, important insights and ideas.

[Learn the 8 Essential Elements of a Nonfiction Book Proposal]

Likewise, if you allow the craft of writing to get bound up or confused with your need to emote or rant or divest yourself of pain, what ends up on the published page (if it manages to get published, that is) will read like something that belongs in your journal. You won’t have proper distance from your material, and your readers will feel as if they are reading your diary. And not in a good way—chances are, that unrefined sentimentality, self-pity and bitchiness will come across as exactly that.

So how best to write about the personal, painful events in our lives? First ask yourself what your purpose is. If it’s to garner sympathy, wrong a right, or begin the process of healing, tell it to your journal first. Get it out of your system. Way out. When you’re no longer Velcroed to your emotions, when you’re ready to explore your story with an eye toward uncovering not just your own truths, but the universal ones that good writing inevitably reveals, you will truly be free to craft.

And won’t that be cathartic?

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Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift bookOh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

The post Crafting Personal Pain: Close Your Journal and Open Your Toolbox appeared first on Writer's Digest.

This guest post is by Randy Kamen, ED.D., author of Behind the Therapy Door: Simple Strategies to Transform Your Life. She is a psychologist and educator who helped pioneer new territory in mind-body medicine at Boston University’s School of Medicine and Harvard’s Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital. She has long been on the leading edge of her profession, integrating insight oriented and cognitive behavioral therapy with holistic methods in her research and clinical work. She helps women build on their strengths and implement new strategies to deepen their experience of insight, healing, and happiness. Dr. Kamen has appeared on numerous TV and radio programs. She writes for the Huffington Post and other media outlets. Follow her on Twitter and Facebook @DrRandyKamen to learn about her speaking engagements and women’s retreats on Martha’s Vineyard and around the country or visit her website DrRandyKamen.com.

The pioneer work of James Pennebaker in his book Writing to Heal and subsequent research on the topic of journal writing, confirms what many of us already know intuitively: Journal writing is a highly effective way to manage stress and alter a wide range of problematic behaviors. Strongly encouraged in the field of psychology and medicine journaling fosters deeper insight, self-awareness, and behavioral change. Behavioral psychologists often say, “If you can track it, you can change it.”

Journaling opens the door for the writer to express personal impressions, daily experiences, and evolving insights as well as reflections about the self, relationships, experiences, dreams, fantasies, and creative musings. This can be done without judgment or restriction. Reviewing earlier entries cultivates the writer’s ability to learn from past events and circumstances that might otherwise go unnoticed. A repetitive, self-destructive behavior becomes more apparent when seen through the lens of these journal entries.

A Vehicle for Mindfulness

Journal writing can be a vehicle for deepening mindfulness as it helps to clarify and refine thoughts and emotions and brings the writer into the present. Like meditation, journal writing helps to clear the mind by transcribing emotional clutter onto the written page. The writer becomes a witness to his or her past behaviors which then paves the way for fresh thought and perspective. Journaling provides a forum that can be both cathartic and revelatory.

A journal creates a great companion wherever you go. It is a resource for observing shifts in your inner world and outer behavior.

Getting Started

Begin the journaling practice by buying a notebook that you can slip into a pocketbook or even a pocket. Consider keeping a separate notebook by the bed to record dreams. Keeping a journal as a private file on the computer is another option. Choose any method that enables you to write consistently for at least ten minutes a day. Some people find that lingering over the writing takes them into a state of reflection about the past, present, or future. Others prefer to track their thoughts about particular subjects, such as dreams, and certain behaviors like smoking, eating, or mood variations. Journaling helps to identify and clarify goals, wishes, and emotional reality without inhibition. Consider a brief meditation as a prelude to journal writing. At a minimum take a few deep breaths for grounding purposes before beginning each new entry. In this way, you will create the condition for even greater focus and lucidity in capturing thoughts and writing.

There are many ways to keep a journal. You may wish to consider the type of journal you would like to keep. There are four kinds of journal that I am proposing here: free associating, gratitude, sentence prompts, and dreams.

Free Associating Journal

In a free associating journal the writer records what- ever comes to mind. This type of journal helps with processing events and clarifying thoughts. It is a venue for noticing feelings, insights, and matters of the heart. This kind of journaling also creates an opportunity for recording life lessons and reflecting on important questions.

Gratitude Journal

In a gratitude journal the writer makes daily recordings about several events for which she is grateful. The idea behind the gratitude journal is to strengthen the part of the brain that focuses on positive thoughts and deepens the capacity to appreciate. This type of journaling is strongly associated with diminished depression and the heightened experience of inner peace and well-being.

Sentence Prompts Journal

In a sentence prompts journal the writer uses open- ended questions or incomplete sentences to evoke (unique) thoughts, feelings, and associations. For example: My relationships will improve when…A risk I am willing to take today is…My life feels most harmonious when I…My goal today is…I believe that…I have always wanted to…I have decided to…My greatest strengths are…I am grateful for…I love…I am happiest when…

Dream Journal

In a dream journal the writer records her dreams upon awaking. Dreams can be a powerful source of insight. Once you begin keeping this kind of journal, you are likely to improve your dream recall. Your dreams are a window into your subconscious mind, which is a powerful way to understand your inner world. Sometimes, in the time it takes say “Good morning” to your partner, your dream can slip away. At first, you may only remember fragments or images from your dreams, but in time you will find that you have access to more vivid recollections.

Healing Childhood Trauma through Connection

Getting in touch with one’s early childhood memories, particularly memories from a challenging history, can cause old emotional pain to resurface, sometimes with a vengeance. Journaling can be a powerful tool to rethink your past, your current behaviors, and explore opportunities for change going forward.

Enjoy the process

Journal writing can become your guide and confidant. Most importantly you can tap into your authentic self without inhibition or judgment. The precious time spent journaling will deepen insight, and wisdom. You may find that your journaling ushers you into a healthier and happier place within yourself and with others.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

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The post The Power of Journaling appeared first on Writer's Digest.