My sister knows me well. (And yet she loves me — imagine that!) I just received a package from her that contained a gift-wrapped book. Y’all know how much I love books, right? I eagerly tore off the wrapping paper. (Okay, who am I kidding? I carefully slid my finger beneath the tape so as not to damage the paper, gently slid the book out, and folded the giftwrap… if you find that odd, then clearly you don’t know me as well as my sister does.)
Beneath the wrappings, I found a journal. In fact, I found THE BEST JOURNAL EVER. It’s titled “My Dysfunctions”, but the subtitle is what truly captures the extent of the book’s awesomeness:
A journal for chronicling my immeasurably fascinating dysfunctions, neuroses, emotions, inner children, moments of shame and doubt, projection, self-loathing, misanthropy, and completely normal insanity, because the only difference between me and the rest of the population is that I acknowledge how crazy I am and they’re all in mind-numbing denial.
I seriously love this journal. I just tried calling my sister to thank her, but she’s not home. She’s off denying her insanity, posing as a mature college professor. (Don’t forget, sis — I know you as well as you know me. Ha!) I’ll look forward to exchanging neurotic stories with her when she gets home from work. For now, I’ll share my book with you, because I thought you might enjoy it, too (not to imply you’re dysfunctional or anything… heh):
A thought for all you writers out there: the kind of honesty this journal calls for — the no-pretense, no-masks, no-denial kind of honesty — is the stuff that makes for great writing. We ought to get in touch with this stuff in ourselves, and let it seep onto the page. It’s the stuff that connects with readers, if we dare to write it. (Go ahead… I dare ya!)