Between the purple covers
You might as well ask what I don't write in my journal. The list would be shorter.
I'm down to the final pages of a notebook that has been my constant companion since last summer. It contains a cross section of my mind and my journeys of the past year, whatever caught my fancy at the moment. I mailed some of its pages to a dear friend on another continent, a letter and a collection of stories for him to read on the plane to come meet me. Some shopping and to-do lists landed there, some notes from a business meeting, some doodles I may one day make into computer artwork. I have poems in both of the languages I know well enough to write a poem. I have the confirmation number for a flight last month. (It saved the day when I lost my itinerary 3000 miles from home!) I have sketches of inventions, floorplans, phone numbers, names of books and music to explore, quotations that resonated, potential blog topics, and an entire page of just fiddling with purple ink on a homemade brush.
Mostly, though, I write. I write to get things off my chest, to unload burdensome or difficult thoughts where they needn't trouble others. I write to think through quandaries and uncertainties, personal and professional. I write to tease the tangled thoughts in my mind into some sort of order, to tinker with ideas that aren't yet complete. In my last year's journal are the drafts for my wedding; the plans for two presentations I gave at a conference; notes and essays that may someday become a book, or two, or three; love letters; rants; ideas; words; confusion; research; stories; meanderings.
My journal is a more inviting place for having no rules or boundaries save perhaps this one: I write to catch each fledgling idea so that the next one can emerge more freely.