“The act of writing one’s story is a spiritual exercise that all of us are called upon to do, whether we want to be published, or not.”
Hi friends,
Can I still wish you a happy new year when we’re a good eight days into it? I think so. If you’re one of recent weeks’ new subscribers, hello! It’s lovely to have you here. Hop on over to this post to find out more about what to expect, including upcoming live sessions and the archive.
How can it feel like both an age and no time at all since I opened a new blank draft? As I scheduled my final posts of the year back in mid-December, I imagined I’d be returning to my usual routine about now feeling all smug and ahead of myself having devoted all that unspoken-for writing time to my big project.
I was a bit ambitious, I think.
I’ve arrived in the second week in January both well and truly Christmas-Holidayed and feeling behind with things. The thousands of words I imagined I’d type never materialised, but nor did I fully switch off. In the olden days, I was good at compartmentalising, channelling “slams laptop shut” long before it was a thing, but this festive season has felt different.
So if I didn’t work and I didn’t rest, what did I do? Well, there was a fair bit of reading: not all of it unhelpful in furthering progress on the big project. There was, too, a lot of walking which we all know is akin to writing. And there was writing. Not the adding to a shared Google doc type, but handwritten words scribbled across my journals. Yes, journals plural. Before the new year, I had three on the go. Now, I’ve got four. Four might seem a bit excessive, so let me explain.
Journal #1 is my diary for the year. I crack open a fresh one every January. It’s normally this Moleskeine one which I’ve long loved for its portability and the paper. The feel of it under a 0.5mm propelling pencil lead. Mmm. This year though, I’ve upsized to a full page per day to accommodate the to-do list and appointments while offering space to scribble down the nice stuff that actually makes up a year. Who dropped in for a coffee that became a glass of wine. The rope swing that appeared in the wooded bit of the park between my post-breakfast and late-afternoon stomps.
In doing this, I’m minded of something
said in a recent post about it having to be enough to simply live through each day. Not in the sense of getting through it but living through it. Note the difference. Truly living through it means being awake to the days (where can we live but days?1) and one way I feel connected to my days is by consciously recording the things that I want to remember, not just the stuff I need not to forget.Journal #2 is for free writing. I’d let this practice slide before sitting in the dark on Friday mornings in December with
and don’t think it’s an over-exaggeration to say that keeping it up throughout the holiday has gone some way to saving my sanity. What I’m writing here isn’t for public consumption but it helps me make sense of things in a way that can’t help but influence my work.Journal #3 will replace the full one I use for prompts and exercises. Like
, I write on the right hand page only and save the left hand for when I’m hunting down material long ago squirrelled away in service to future-me and want space to annotate. I haven’t written in this tomatoey-red one yet and I’m looking forward to doing so during my next Arvon writing week which starts on 20th January.Journal #4 is a bit of an experiment. I picked it up in the Wellcome Collection bookshop when I was down in London in mid-December and decided to start it late that night, tucked up in a friend’s attic in borrowed pyjamas.
Perhaps a 25-year line-a-day journal is an optimistic purchase: I’ll be writing in it until I’m 66 (if I’m still drawing breath, as my gran would’ve said). I’m still finding my way with it, currently picking it up at bedtime and writing a one-line sense impression of the day. A feeling. A detail. No where/when/who/why. I missed a day during the holidays and let it stay empty. This is my only rule: no going back. Who knows how it’ll evolve, but it appeals to the long-term project part of my brain and made me think about Sarah Manguso’s short book, Ongoingness: The End of the Diary in which she confronts and explores what her meticulous (compulsive?) 25-year-long diary-keeping meant. Oh, I loved it.
“The act of writing one’s story is a spiritual exercise that all of us are called upon to do, whether we want to be published, or not.”
All of this, I suppose, to bring us back to Altman’s words. All of us are called upon to write our lives, she says. It’s a calling. It feels right. Perhaps not for all of us, but for me. I know I write because it is the closest I get to what Altman describes as spiritual practice. A blank page is a sacred thing. A full one, arguably, even moreso. It’s a devotional: to ourselves and - by extension - to one another, no matter whether we intend for others to read us.
Maybe I’ll look back at these journals in the future, able with a bit of distance, to see the threads of story that bind them all together. In part, it’s how I wrote my first memoir. Perhaps you’re sitting now with a completed stash of journals a bit like mine, wondering how you might pull together the strands of your life contained within them? Are you ready to tell that story?
There are two spots left on my Memoir in a Month course, starting live on Wednesday 15th January 7-9pm GMT or available asynchronously with recordings, materials and community vibes via our closed Slack channel. I won’t be running this course again in 2025 because I’m excited to make space for a new family history research course, so here’s all the info you need:
Join me and a small group of writers in a compassionate, supportive online space to explore the craft of memoir over five weeks. Through readings and exercises, you will develop your premise, find your unique voice and explore different aspects of the life writer's craft from structure and form through to characterisation and the ethics of life writing. You will also work on the nuts and bolts of writing, including how to choose and use a variety of narrative framing devices and how to write dialogue.
Each writer will be invited to book one 30-minute tutorial with me during weeks one to three to discuss their WIP, and on week four we'll be joined by our guest reader,
who will share a reading and join me in conversation about craft, ethics and representation in life writing, as well as stoke our collective creative fire. Caro has a monthly column in Psychologies Magazine here in the UK, and was named Countryfile's Nature Writer of the Year in 2021. Her new book (part memoir, part polemic), Unschooled, is due for release in the autumn and will explore what it takes to fight for the educational rights of children who cannot be educated in mainstream schools.On our final session, we'll join together in a sharing ceilidh to celebrate the month's work and our time together.
When? 7-9pm GMT on five consecutive Wednesdays:
January 15th, 22nd, 29th
February 5th, 12th.
Where? Zoom and Slack.
Each session will give you the tools you need to work independently across the week, whether your goal is to begin writing from life, make progress on a WIP or polish up an existing first draft. I’m also bringing my knowledge of writing for publication, querying agents, submitting work to competitions and working on book proposals and will be open to questions throughout the month in our dedicated Slack workspace.
You can reserve your place by completing this Google Form
What’s the investment?
When I confirm your spot, you will be invited to upgrade to the Founding Member tier, which costs £175 and includes a year’s access to all the Membership benefits as well (normally £50 for an annual subscription). If you already have an active annual subscription, your upgrade cost will adjust to reflect your investment.
Why trust me?
Read more on my facilitation, teaching and life writing experience here.
Testimonials
“I joined Memoir in a Month with a sense of curiosity about whether I could write a memoir, but no real confidence in how to approach it. Imposter syndrome loomed large - who am I to write about what's happened to me, let alone hope others might want to read about it? The supportive group calls were a great place to share some of these fears and concerns. Little by little, Lindsay gave us some incredibly helpful scaffolding and prompts to begin to nurture and share our fledgling voices. I learned about structure and pacing and scenes and all the component parts of what makes for a compelling piece of writing. But, most of all, Lindsay's warm encouragement enabled me to discover and own my reasons for writing from life, to show up without apology, and to maybe, just maybe, begin to call myself a writer. Thank you for such a wonderful course.
“The session tonight was so good, and you're such an excellent workshop leader - you make the space feel very safe and welcoming. Thank you again, looking forward to next week.”
“I so loved these workshops, and genuinely got stuff down. Thank you, Lindsay.”
“You created a very chilled and cosy, comfortable atmosphere for a workshop which is VERY hard to do online.”
I’m easing myself into 2025 and so will be back in your inbox a week from Sunday. In the meantime, why not pop over to the archive or listen into my first memoir, Held in Mind?
Lindsay x
Thanks, Larkin
Have you read The Golden Notebook? The abiding memory I have of that is the protagonist using 4 different journals for something like world events, a fictional story, a memoir - I can't remember exactly what they were now, but tried different colour Leuchsturms for a while but as I always wrote too much in each, I could never keep them all going.
I also have four journals on the go this year - a 5 year one line a day diary, free writing journal, tarot journal and my new addition for 2025, a notebook to write down one lovely or beautiful thing that happens each day (inspired by one of Clover Stroud’s recent posts, and importantly NOT a gratitude journal). Also countless thoughts and ideas jotted down in my Notes app!