Self-Portrait with Straw Hat, Paris, Winter 1887/88, Metropolitan Museum of Art, (F365v)

This morning, I read this blog post and was inspired by how honest it, and most of her posts are (I can’t say all, because I haven’t read them all). It’s not that I’m dishonest in my posts, I’m just not very transparent. There is a lot about me that I keep to myself.

Which isn’t neccessarily a bad thing.

But there is undoubtedly a connection that occurs when we are fully transparent, warts and all, with each other.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about that today.

There are many different schools of thought around journal writing and how it helps the creative process. I was an undedicated journaler in high school and college, but once I moved in with Chris I stopped for fear that he would find and read it and find out what really goes on in my head. Mostly, I just process thoughts verbally. But as I write and create more, I am seeing my unresolved thoughts forcing themselves out onto the page, into the lives of my characters. It’s my unconscious saying okay, if you won’t deal with this, I’m going to make Characters A & B act it out for you. Deal with it.

So I’m thinking about going back to journaling, even if it is irregularly. Then I saw this article about five great published diaries and my thought process changed from “how can I be more open” to “oh my gosh I would come back and haunt anyone who dared publish my private writings after I’m dead.” It feels a bit like an invasion of privacy to read someone’s diary, or any writing that wasn’t intended for the world.

But I am inconsistent in this thinking, because I am curious about what I can learn about artists through these writings. I recently purchased Dear Theo. Matthew Perryman Jones’s amazing song O Theo was inspired by the letters Van Gogh wrote to his brother, and I watched A Brush with Genius on Netflix. Before this, really all I knew about Van Gogh was that he was an amazing painter who cut off is ear. I named my dog (also missing most of one ear) after him. But I never realized how consumed he was buy his art. Obviously, his consummation reached a critical level. But if I could be only a fraction as committed as him, how much more could I accomplish?

I haven’t read The book yet, but I plan to. Which once again makes me nervous to process my thoughts in a journal or diary.

What do you think? Am I just nuts (entirely possible) or do you sometimes wonder how the authors of the diaries/journals that are now published would have felt if they knew their words would be read? I’m curious.