I have these journals. I keep them on the table by my bed, and I’ve used them for everything from letting off steam to writing down things that I’m worried I’ll forget.
It’s not a thing I make a point of doing regularly, however. For example, I was reading through some old journals last night. In the second-to-last entry in one volume, I was fretting about how the guy I’d met on the bus suddenly seemed more distant, and was he ever going to ask me out?
In the final entry, I had just found out that I was expecting that guy’s baby.