JOURNALING is a way of giving voice to our inner thoughts and feelings; in a very real sense, it’s a monologue for an audience of one. But journal writing can help us develop more than one voice and in more than one form. We can write in the child’s voice, the teenager’s voice, and the adult voice in forms as diverse as dialog, gossip, argument, free association, poetry, and song. We can imitate sounds of others around us, using dialect and tone. We can also enrich our writing with descriptions of sound.  Noises — blatt, splat, and phht!

But before we can effectively record what we hear, and before our writing can express itself lyrically, we need to learn to listen. We need to raise our level of “hearing awareness.” In addition, being more sense-aware will improve your journaling and writing in general by helping you express yourself more fully.

Here is a fun exercise to get you started:

• Wherever you are, close your eyes and listen. What do you hear? After a few minutes, open your eyes and make a list of the sounds you heard.
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• What does each sound remind you of? For example, what do the dry leaves sound like in the wind? Voices whispering? Insects rubbing their wings together? Rattlesnakes? Let your imagination carry you along. For each sound you listed, write at least one other thing that makes a similar sound.
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• Now, attempt to write each sound phonetically (this is known as onomatopoeia). For example, maybe the a light rain was dripping rhythmically into the rain gutters. “Tink-a-tap, tink-a-tap, tink-a-tap” might be the sound you would write. Try to write how it really sounded, and avoid typical English representations, such as “boom!”, “oink” and “meow” (unless that’s really how it sounded to you).
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• Which sounds remind you of something in your past? Write a short scene, incorporating an event with a sound you heard, using the description and a phonetic rendering of the sound itself.
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• Read your scene aloud. Listen to how the words sound rolling off your tongue. If a word or phrase sounds awkward, is there a better word or phrase you could use instead? Once you’ve got the wording down, read it aloud a second time. If there’s dialog, use different voices. If there are sounds, pronounce the sounds you’ve written phonetically. Be dramatic, and have fun! Can you turn this scene into a short memoir vignette?

Repeat this exercise on more than one occasion. The practice will help to raise your awareness of sound in general, which will naturally enhance your journaling and memoir writing.

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Image by Daniel Montesinos
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GIVEN my preference for journaling and writing on the computer rather than writing by hand, I thought a recent Wall Street Journal article, “How Handwriting Trains the Brain” (10/5/2010), was interesting. The gist of the article was that the practice of handwriting improves the ability to develop and express ideas. The study was conducted with children, but they found that adults also benefit from handwriting.

Though I do enjoy journal writing with pen and colored pencils from time to time, particularly when I am traveling or want to write in a natural setting, I have always “pooh-poohed” the people who say the pen is more directly connected to the brain than the keyboard. I mean, how can that be? They both operate through the fingers, right? Well, this study gives credence to all you pen-and-paper journal writers.

I propose a three-week-long personal experiment:

• Week 1 — write only on the computer
• Week 2 — write only by hand
• Week 3 — Do a little of each, each day.

Afterwards, review and compare your writing. During which week was your writing the most creative and inspired? In which were you able to form and communicate your ideas? Is there any difference? What other factors should you consider (mood, life events, etc.)? And what bias did you begin with? Did the results surprise you or did they simply confirm your bias?

I’m curious.

If I can get ten people to take up this challenge with me … five of you who prefer to journal on the computer and five who prefer to journal by hand … we’ll conduct the experiment together and post the results on the blog.

If you’d like to participate, leave a comment below. We’ll conduct the experiment beginning Monday, January 3, 2011. (No sense trying something like this during the holidays).

Ready? Let’s do it!

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Image by Lucas TheExperience
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THINK for a moment about the sense of touch (the ability to feel temperature, pressure, vibration, and texture) and how much it affects our lives. Now ask yourself, how much of your journal or memoir writing includes the wonderful details this sense offers us?

If you’re like me, we don’t always include a lot of sensory detail in our journaling. Yet, what is a sunny day without the heat of the sun against our skin and the relief of the shade? A breeze without the slight pressure of movement that riffles the hairs on our arms and cools the skin? Velvet without that soft, silky, creamy, oh-so-strokable texture that seems to be described only with the word velvety?

If we are to record the events of our lives and write about them, we need to include this sense in all its beauty and sometimes inconvenience. I know that I, for one, often struggle with a lack of awareness of touch and a deficient vocabulary to adequately describe how something feels. So I’ve devised a few short exercises to assist the development of both of these skills.

Touch Awareness Exercises

1. For 10-15 minutes, as you go about your usual routine, notice the textures of objects you touch or brush against. Notice the feel of any breeze, the pressure of the clothing against your skin. How it feels to touch someone else. While you are doing so, try to find words to describe the different sensations.
2. Take a walk in a park or in your garden. Touch plants, leaves, and flowers as you walk and notice how they feel. Are they cool or warm to the touch? Smooth or prickly? Describe them to yourself.

After either of the touch awareness exercises, spend 10 minutes writing about it in your journal. If any of the touch sensations bring up memories, write about those memories.

Expanding Your Sensory Vocabulary

1. Select a few words from your descriptions and look them up in your thesaurus. Are there synonyms that more accurately describe how that object/sensation felt? For example, for the word smooth, you might use unwrinkled, glassy, silky, or polished.
2. Rewrite one of your passages, expanding the descriptions and the  vocabulary.

Now, wasn’t that fun? For additional articles and prompts about using sensory details in journaling, view the Telling Your Stories through Sensory Details category and my post on WomensMemoirs.com titled Using Your Senses to Inspire Creative Journal writing.

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Image Credit: Swamibu

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THE SENSE OF SMELL has always been my weakest sense, and I have always envied writers whose sense of smell is strong and present in their storytelling. Writers who talk about the steamy, yeast-filled fragrance of a loaf of bread straight from the oven, who remember scents of lilacs and mown grass from their childhood, and who manage to fill their stories with fragrant, rather than visual, imagery.

You might ask why it matters. Studies have proven that some of our strongest memories are linked to smells (even in those of us for whom the sense of smell isn’t particularly prominent). That is why the scent of our mother’s perfume, lingering on her clothing long after she is gone, will bring back a flood of childhood memories, and why certain kinds of food aromas spell contentment.

Women I know who were raised by parents who spent a lot of time in the kitchen associate food with more than just dinner; it equates to family time, to discussion, to warmth, and to comfort. Women like me, whose childhood kitchen smells (except for holidays and canning season) included TV dinners and burnt brownies … well, I can only say that I have a certain fondness for the smell of burning cookies.

I notice that I don’t pay attention to scents, unless they are particularly strong. Therefore, smells and all their associations, negative and positive, don’t show up in my writing of their own accord. To reverse what I perceive as a flaw in myself — not only as a writer, but as an experiencer of life — I set myself a task. During the week, whenever it occurs to me, I try to notice the smells around me. I’ll bend down close and sniff a rose, bury my face in something soft and fragrant, or take note of the not-so-nice smells of burning rubber, diesel engines, or cigars. I inhale deeply of whatever the scent is, and then mentally attempt to describe it.

I ask myself, what does this smell taste like? Is it bitter? Sour? Sweet? Tangy? Does it make my mouth water? Nose wrinkle? When I breathe it in, is it thick or thin? Do I want more of it or less of it? Does it bring up any memories? And so on.

Then, during at least one journal writing session a week, I try to remember a smell that I took note of earlier and describe it. I close my eyes and, in my mind, put myself back in the place where the wonderful fragrance or nose-assaulting smell occurred. I write one paragraph. That’s all. If the memory happens to bring up memories of another kind, I allow myself to write about them, but I don’t force anything.

Here is why this little exercise is successful: I never judge myself (so what if I can’t remember something accurately?); I never judge my writing (hey, no one but me is ever going to read it anyway); and I remind myself that the practice will not only strengthen my writing in the long run, but will also strengthen my powers of perception and ability to stop and breathe in the moment.

If the sense and/or description of smell doesn’t come easily to you, try this little exercise. And let me know how it goes — or smells, as the case may be.

ON A RECENT WALK, the afternoon light filtered softly through a thick web of oak branches and leaves, the tree branches forming an archway that beckoned me into nature’s hall and to some magical place beyond. Spider web  filaments, stretching from branch to branch, danced in the breeze. Beneath my feet, a delicate carpet of clover glowed like emerald green velvet. I imagined that if I lay down on it, it would smell like newly cut grass. And it would not be crushed, but by some magical property would hold my weight and spring back unfazed when I arose again.

As the sun moved lower on the horizon, the clover burst into blossoms of cold, green fire that in some strange way reminded me of the lacy stems of baby’s breath.  Wanting a closer view, I lay flat on the ground.  The earth’s fertile aromas—moist, peaty, and decaying—filled my nostrils. Needles of dry oak leaves poked my ribs through my shirt, and my knees and hipbones sunk into the soft ground.

I thought, “I have become an ant,” and I began to climb the towering clover stems to that magical place of gold and jade-green clouds. I knew that reaching it, I would reach heaven, and its streets would be paved with amber gold. But as I climbed, the sun’s spotlight moved to another actor, the brilliance dimmed, and the filaments of glowing light began to fade from sight. Entranced, I lay still as the earth’s damp cold spread into my body.  I became one with the dissolving leaves and spreading moss and knew that when the next visitor arrived, she would see only a fresh growth of green clover where my body once lay.