Last night, I found my director in tears outside the playhouse, scribbling haphazardly in a corkbound journal...the kind ubiquitous in chain-bookstores. She's been having serious relationship difficulties, and I sat a small distance away and smoked, torn between giving her space and saying, "I'm still here. I care."

After several moments, she found her voice and said, "I've been reading entries from the past year. Guess what they have in common?" I keep a journal, too, so it wasn't a difficult guess. "You write only when something's wrong?" She nodded, asking why it happens that way.

I wish I knew. When life is good, sometimes we don't slow down enough to record the good moments. Maybe we're too busy enjoying life to step away and analyze what's happening. Maybe pleasure doesn't demand the same cathartic release of journaling pain. Maybe on some level we enjoy torturing ourselves by placing our fears and hurts on blank white pages.

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