I write because I can’t imagine not writing anymore. It started as an academic exercise, a skill sharpened through years of graduate work, but somewhere along the way, it became something more—something I need to do. Now, this journal is both a habit and a compulsion, a place where thoughts take shape and reflections find a home. As Joan Didion once wrote, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.” That’s true for me, too. Writing is the mirror I hold up to myself, an act of discovery rather than just expression.
I was taught to be a reflective decision-maker by my mentors in college, Glenn Coltharp and Conrad Gubera, two men who showed me the value of education, friendship, and knowledge. That foundation has stayed with me, shaping not only how I teach but how I move through the world. Philosophy has become my way of understanding life’s big questions without leaning on religion. Like Marcus Aurelius wrote in Meditations, “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” That idea—of seeking meaning within rather than from external validation—guides much of my thinking.
I don’t consider myself a storyteller, but I write because I feel compelled to, even when I can hear the imagined eye rolls of family and friends. I write critically about myself, but not to dwell on the negative—rather, to work through my thoughts. In that way, this journal is mostly for me. I don’t expect anyone to read it, but I leave the window open. People can pass by, they can peep in, and the brave can crawl through. As Virginia Woolf put it, “Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.”
Like art, meaning is in the eye of the beholder. I’m not trying to impart anything specific—I’m just writing to see where the words take me. In some ways, this is my way of leaving a mark. I don’t have children, and maybe this journal is all I’ll leave behind. It reminds me of my ancestor, John Christopher Armstrong, who etched his name into a rock in Utah as an early Mormon settler. In a small way, I’m doing the same thing here. As Seneca said, “Life is long if you know how to use it.” Writing is my way of making sense of time, of using it well, of ensuring that some trace of me remains.
Ritual is grounding. Whether it’s a cup of tea, a pipe on the porch, or quiet reflection, I find structure in these acts. They anchor my experience and give rhythm to my days. This journal is an extension of that—a ritual of writing, a foundation to build upon. As Haruki Murakami writes in What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, “Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that’s the essence of running, and a metaphor for life.” The same could be said of writing. It’s a quiet discipline, a way of making sense of things, a process of pushing toward understanding.
This is My Secret Public Journal. It isn’t everything, but it is a window into my mind, left unlocked.