I have a desire to write, but nothing to write about. As one of the blogs I regularly read pointed out, she often writes that she has nothing to say but follows it up with eight to ten paragraphs of banter. I guess that would be called a freewrite. Remember those in school? We often had to keep journals in my English classes, and no doubt at one point every teacher would give us freewrite day. We were given, say, twenty minutes to just write whatever was on our minds.
I remember one teacher I had, Mrs. W., actually read and commented on everything I wrote. I was in her Honors class, so I always wondered if she read and commented on every single journal. Also, I wrote then, like I do now. I didn't hold back and that teacher knew things about me that I didn't share with any of my friends. I trusted her, and was thankful that she never shared my innermost dilemmas and thoughts with the counselor or anyone else. I am not saying that I wrote about bombs at school, or going on a shooting spree at school, because I was completely happy with my school situation. No, I wrote about feelings, deep ones, I wrote about my friends and what I really thought about them. I believe I even wrote about sex in my school journal.
I wish I still had those journals. I may, they may be hidden away in some box somewhere. Alas, I have no idea where they are. I have a few composition books from my later teen years and early twenties. I still write in one that I keep by my bed. Sometimes my mind needs to purge itself of all of these disconnected thoughts. Occasionally its like having word diarrhea and needing to sit on the toilet that is my journal. And almost always those thoughts are ones I will forever keep to myself.