Why is writing to publish so different than journaling?

Every morning with few exceptions I open up my journal — either an unlined sketch pad or a notebook in Evernote. In a matter of 2 cups of coffee and half an hour, I write effortlessly several pages. My head space, my dreams, my day previous, considerations for choices ahead: words flow from thought to hand to page. And in the river of my writing, I go deeper into my consciousness than I ever do during the day. Only meditation compares.

Often I can pluck a few gems from the writing. Ideas to consider; realizations about a situation. This is how I process life. I’ve been doing it for 15 years… a 3 foot high pile of notebooks when stacked.

Every time I turn my attention to writing to publish — a blog post, an essay, a screenplay — that river dries up; my mind turns to stone. And rarely does a miracle take place.

The difference is absurd. I’ve raged on my inability to write for over a decade. Journaling isn’t writing, I tell myself. It doesn’t count. And maybe that distinction is right. Writing is supposed to be communication. What I do in the morning is an inward journey, a conversation with myself. Ruminating on the possibilities, like a traveler alone in open country.

When I write instead with the intent to communicate, I feel trapped by what I am trying to communicate, as if setting a goal destroys the purpose of the writing itself. Perhaps this is a result of how I’ve come to read online much of the time: TL;DR… what’s the point?

It’s like helicoptering to the top of Everest. You’ve seen the top, been there, why bother climbing the damn mountain?

No, I can’t write that way. Nor can I communicate that way.

There must be an exploration. Let us test our strength, our guile, the pace of words. A sense of how you step through your day, whether time swirls about your ankles, or rises and crashes in pounding waves… Or how a heart ripples in response to these stones, cast forward.

Did you know the heart produces 60 times more electrical energy than the brain?

Am I writing for another Self? The creative process is a chipping away of empty space. I search the void within, calling with my voice. And the words bounce back, revealing shapes within. A constant exploration. What am I looking for? Clues to help me navigate the world above? Perhaps a treasure with which I can become a powerful adventurer. Or a lost child, hiding in the depths of the forgotten and the ransomed?

We write to communicate; but with whom? Am I mapping out these inner worlds in the vain hope that one day someone might find them useful? None of this makes sense. I notice a thing or two along the way. The sun sets. We dream different dreams. Forgetting what we’ve already lost.

And then I awake, and take note of the footprints in my heart.