My Back Pages
A New Year’s Tribute to an Old Friend
Looking forward and looking back.
That’s the name of the game on New Year’s Eve.
I’ve certainly got a lot to look forward to with 2022 coming around the corner. But around this time comes a special kind of anniversary for me; an anniversary to celebrate the presence of an old friend who’s been with me through thick and thin, and has carried and listened to every single word I told to them, like a true ear lent.
I’m, of course, talking about the myth, the legend…
My journal.
I’ve talked about you before in the periphery. I’ve mentioned how helpful you’ve been to me: how you played an influence on my growth as a writer, how you provided me a space to be my most vulnerable self, free from the judging eyes of others, how you provide me a time capsule in which to see myself as I’ve grown throughout the years, capturing every flaw, every burst of anger, and every shout of joy.
You’ve captured for me the highest of highs and the darkest of depths, and reading the words that chronicle those sends me back on all those trips all over again.
Even though your older siblings, the dime-store composition books, came along first, you’ve been with me the longest. Seven years have passed since I first created and archived you as a Word document around this time in 2014, and with that first journal entry I rang in that New Year of 2015 by telling you the stories of my family’s cross-country trip to California; a fitting prelude for what would be a long relationship. You were, of course, different from any tangible notebook: they had a defined ending once I reached the last page and the time came to buy another one.
You, my friend, can go on for as long as my story lasts; listening and never complaining about any of my boring details.
We’re getting close to a thousand pages, you and I. We’ve been through seven New Year’s already; you’ve seen all the resolutions I’ve fulfilled, and the ones I haven’t…you also know which side outweighs the other…but don’t tell anyone else, alright?
You helped me to discover my authorial voice by writing about the events of my day, my week, my months, my year. I’ve seen that influence bleed over into my other narrative writing pieces, be it fiction or non-fiction. I’ve discovered that I can write emotions, and expressions of emotions, much more convincingly ever since I started by plumbing the depths of my own emotions and crafting the experience into visceral verbiage that I can apply to any one of my fictional characters in my stories.
More than that, you’ve allowed me to see how I — singular, insignificant Kevin — am more nuanced and complex, with all the “contained, contradictory multitudes” Walt Whitman wrote so elegantly about, than my mind was giving myself credit for. In your back pages I see the tender heart looking for love, meaning and acceptance, as well as the beast in me, “caged by frail and fragile bars.”
When the times spiraled down — and believe me, old friend, they did — you were also there to see that there was no way to go but up from that point. You were also there for those as well.
Believe me: you’ve given me quite the experience reading over your back pages, and I’m sure I’ll keep doing so over the next fifty-some years I have on this floating rock we call Earth, where you’ll be around to capture them all.
So I’ll raise a glass to you, old friend, in humbled thanks.
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
Whene’er I lose my mind?
These olden pages, surely not!
Those filled with auld lang syne.
Let’s hit that thousand pages, huh, pal?
