When I first started keeping a journal four years ago, I was writing the dumbest shit in it. At the time, I wanted to be writer, but I didn’t “believe” in myself, and I didn’t have any professional experience. The journal became the vehicle where I took a stab (violently) at writing wordy, “lyrical” crap which I hoped someone would eventually read, and be like, “holy shit, that’s poetic. You need a book deal.”
As an example, here’s what I scribbled regarding the poem “Galveston, 1961” by Richard Wilbur (below):
Doesn’t remind me of anything except for nostalgia for a time in which I never lived… To be young and watched, loved by a Texas man.
Dumbest. Thing. Ever. Written.
Fortunately for myself, I became sick of writing in the journal about three days after I began pasting things in it.