Lighthouse Park, Vancouver BC
“Of course, a writer’s journal must not be judged by the standards of a diary. The notebooks of a writer have a very special function: in them he builds up, piece by piece, the identity of a writer to himself. Typically, writers’ notebooks are crammed with statements about the will: the will to write, the will to love, the will to renounce love, the will to go on living. The journal is where a writer is heroic to himself. In it he exists solely as a perceiving, suffering, struggling being.” – Susan Sontag
I shipped my first journal home after I finished it, too much to carry and too much angst to fit in a backpack in Asia. As I arrived in Vancouver in 2012 I was on my third book of scribbles and thoughts. It overflowed with train stubs and maps, and was tied together with a leather cover that was no longer bound to the pages themselves. I found this map folded there; a remnant from a time I was still a tourist on the coast, between stories I’ll never let anyone read, and where of course I am my own hero.