Every now and then, I flip through all my journals – seven bound notebooks filled with memories and ideas from every part of my life. The oldest entry I can find is from 2009. It begins, “Tomaro is the first day of school. I am very exided.”

Reading through these ink-filled pages today, I realize how valuable these memories are. Unlike photographs which only capture surfaces, my journals remind me of how I actually felt at the time — not just what 8 year old me was doing, but what 8 year old me was  thinking about. Tiny details that would have been long forgotten are preserved in each scribble and letter on the page.

But more than a memory capsule, my journal is a space where I can write with total freedom – no restrictions or expectations about what the words should sound like or mean. Finding my voice as a writer is an ongoing process, but I’ve learned that I have to write for myself before writing for others. When we write for any particular audience, we take on voices: academic voices, character voices, narrative voices, and others. Like masks on a theater stage, we pick which voice to wear, shrouding our ideas in pre-constructed phrases and tropes. I’ve learned to tailor my writing to fit certain expectations, cutting pieces that don’t sound right or sculpting ideas into forms that are understandable for my imagined reader.

Finding my voice as a writer is an ongoing process, but I’ve learned that I have to write for myself before writing for others.

But how often do we write for ourselves? Listen to our own voices and pay loving attention to its peculiarities and quirks? When I write without an audience, I can lay down the mask and be completely self-indulgent with my words. My journal has developed its own system of codes: names shortened to letters, indescribable things that could only be represented as a scribble across the page. And when I see that mark five years later, I still know what I wanted it to mean, and I’m transported back to the moment I made it. So even if the words I put on the page felt inadequate, they still successfully transmit the feelings I wished to convey.

“Kill your darlings” we’re often told as writers. The process of writing and revision is commonly riddled with pain, anxiety, and fear. Is this sentence good enough? Does this word belong? We learn to ruthlessly trim, cut, and eliminate any phrase deemed unnecessary. Yet in a journal, every idea can be granted space on the page, every darling is spared.

Yet in a journal, every idea can be granted space on the page, every darling is spared.

Like a sketchbook for artists, journals are a site for experimentation, exploration, and discovery. There’s no pressure for a graphite outline to be turned into a masterpiece — it can just be. People say you should “write what you know,” but how do we learn and grow as writers if we don’t go outside the boundaries of our knowledge and venture into new spaces? We are taught all these rules and guidelines for writing, and yet as a reader, my favorite moments are often when expectations are subverted and rules are broken. Gogolian characters that appear and disappear without logic, Faulknerian sentences that run on for pages — these delightful darlings bring stories to life.

How do we find and foster our own darlings? I was always uncomfortable with the instruction to “plan before you write.” I rarely have plans because I never know where a sentence will take me until I get there with my pen. In my journal, thinking and writing merge into one. Embracing a playful spirit allows my creativity to reach new places. 

So yes, there are times we need to kill our darlings and let go of things we love but don’t serve enough purpose in our work. But make the space to spare and nurture these darlings, and you might discover something unexpected about your writing and your voice.