Journaling can sometimes feel like going to the gym for your writing muscles, but for whatever reason it's always been hard for me to keep up the habit. I have at least 10 different notebooks of various shapes and sizes, each a thoughtful gift or hopeful purchase that started with a few "well I'm trying this again" entries, only to be left blank on a bedside table or in a desk drawer.
The pandemic has only escalated the importance of using a journal to process our personal thoughts and feelings of a historic moment, but still, it can be hard to keep it up. Being creative is hard work, and generally, I try to save it for my work (and Twitter) — there's not always a lot left for my own musings.
I'm clearly not alone in this feeling of blankness when it comes to journaling, because there's a whole industry of journals pre-filled with daily prompts, as well digital sources of writing prompts from news sources, mommy blogs, and journaling apps like Day One. Still, the questions tends to be pretty basic and of the now — "what are your top five songs" and "what's on your kitchen counter right now" — prompts meant to get you writing, but not necessarily really dig deep.
I actually think the perfect source of journal prompts comes from the "beautiful questions" of Anne Basting, who works with the elderly and memory impaired by asking open-ended questions that don't require rote recitation of facts from their life past and present, but instead evoke the emotions of their most treasured experiences. The prompts on Basting's "Timeslips" website are intended as a resource to help learn more about the deep memories of your grandparents and other aging relatives — but you can also use them as journal prompts to practice retaining your own memories for the next generation.
First attempt: "When do you feel truly at home?"
Probably after a long day of work and worry, sitting on a couch piled with cuddling dogs and my loving wife.
Does that count as a journal entry?
Do you keep a journal? What keeps you going at it? Let us know.
— Mark