I Don’t Have Anything To Write About

This is something I’ve said countless times in my life.

Like all aspiring writers, I began collecting notebooks and journals before I even knew how to write. My collection grew and grew, stacked up in my closet until I finally couldn’t justify having them and gave them to my mom to use for grocery lists and notes for herself. I remember flipping through one composition notebook when I was around nine years old and ripping out the few pages I had written or scribbled on. One of the only pages that actually had anything on it was a note from me after I had gotten a guitar-shaped pen as a birthday present from a classmate. Literally all it said was that I was writing with said guitar pen.

I tried to keep a diary many, many times throughout my childhood, but it never worked out. I always thought it was because I didn’t do anything interesting, or I didn’t have anything interesting to say. I also had a somewhat-irrational fear that someone was going to read it—which, in retrospect, wasn’t really an issue, seeing as there wasn’t anything written in the journals. I always wanted to do it, but it just never worked. I would sign each page with I’ll write later, but I don’t think anyone ever thought that was going to happen.

Since you’re here reading my blog, you’re probably wondering what changed—why do I think I have something important to say now, and not back then?

It all started, like most things do, in therapy.

When I was coming to the end of my time as a client of my very first therapist, I was nervous about being on my own with my mental health, and I wanted to have a way to keep track of things I had talked about with her. Things like the thought patterns I fell into (assuming what people are thinking, asking what if about every little thing), or trying to stay in touch with how I felt from day to day, which was something I was working on. So, I went to Meijer and picked out a notebook. I didn’t write in it everyday, and I still don’t. I would make a point to sit down in the evenings when I had a particularly rough day, or caught myself in the middle of those thought patterns.

That girl was looking at me, she probably thought I was stupid.

What if those people were talking about me?

As I got more and more comfortable with my mental health on my own, my journaling became more sporadic, but I would always come back to it when I needed to. It became a way for me to organize my thoughts before talking about them—to get everything out so I could analyze what was going on. It was very therapeutic for me, and if you are trying to get into journaling, I highly recommend starting this way.

The biggest thing to remember is this: Don’t put so much pressure on yourself to have something “interesting” to journal about. Who else is going to read this? Ideally no one, right? I wrote a note to myself in my journal when I first got it that says not to worry about making things seem like they aren’t so bad, or making everything seem relatable. If I have anything to say about it, no one else is ever going to read what I’ve written.

And I’m very glad about that, because seventeen-year-old me was in a very vulnerable place, and I’m also glad that I found that outlet to get those feelings out.

Happy writing!

—Abbie