My memory is certainly in my hands. I can remember things only if I have a pencil and I write with it and I can play with it. I think my hand concentrates for me. I don’t know why it should be so. — Dame Rebecca West
People give me books. Books about Italy, books about writing, books about cooking Italian food, books about other women writers. They buy them new and they find them in yard sales. They sometimes find them at the very back of a closet or in the “behind” row of books on their bookshelf and think, “Linda would like this.” And I do. I love books. I have far too many of them and find it impossible to part with even the most dog-eared, bedraggled, cover-coming-off specimen.
On my most recent birthday, a dear friend gave me a new travel writing book that (a) I had not seen before, and (b) was written by her daughter’s roommate in San Francisco. That was a very special gift. She even had the author inscribe it for me. Writing Away, by Lavinia Spalding, is a wonderful resource for anyone who is even remotely considering writing about his or her traveling experiences. Subtitled, “a creative guide to awakening the journal-writing traveler,” the book is a joy to read, interweaving personal stories with travel advice and journaling how-tos. And like me, she loves quotes about travel and writing — you get a passel of ‘em here.
Lavinia’s bio blurb says that she has kept travel journals on five continents and that her work has appeared in many national publications. I am daunted by this. As some of you know, once I went to Italy ten years ago, that was basically the end for me. I can’t stop going back. Not that I’ll never go anywhere else again — I’m sure I will — I just can’t imagine why right now. In any case, Lavinia is certainly braver (and most likely quite a bit younger) than I, and has traveled extensively: Manila, Cambodia, Costa Rica, Korea and so on. I am a wimp by comparison.
In any case, I believe that no matter where you travel — from the most remote outback to the next county seat — you can find something to journal about. Your state of mind at the time. Your fears and expectations. What it reminds you of. Where you would much rather be. What you’ve learned the hard way. What wisdom has been imparted to you by the locals. What you eat there. What (or who) has made you very angry today. What words you love in the native language. (At the moment, “pamplemousse” is my favorite French word and “cinghiale” is my favorite word in Italian. Not for their meanings, no; I just love the way they sound.)
One of my favorite chapters in Writing Away is about telling the truth, and I like it because it addresses head-on a subject that we writers will all grapple with at one time or another: How truthful should I be in my writing? Whose feelings will I hurt? Should I wait ‘til they’re dead to tell what really happened that Thanksgiving? Should I mask my real feelings for this place because someone might read it and get angry/disagree with me/come after me? (They may get angry or disagree, but they probably won’t come after you — and if they disagree, so what?)
She reminds us that when we’re children, we have no problem ranting into our diaries about who done us wrong and how absolutely God-awful we feel, but that as we get older, we tend to put the brakes on this kind of honesty. We should consider, she says, why we’re writing our journal in the first place. Is it intended to be totally private, for ever and ever? What if it’s found years from now — how will the family react to it? What do you want them to know about this time and place? Is it intended for eventual publication? Or is it a blog, like this one, which is a very public thing from the outset?
Lavinina writes, “Consider the legacy you might leave for others, overruling your internal editor and baring you soul to the page . . . most of us write what we want to but seldom what we need to, for fear of exposure . . .The bottom line is that it’s crucial to feel safe while writing, because only when you feel free to tell the truth will you experience the unselfconsciousness necessary to break through to meaty, life-changing conclusions.”
I need to take her advice. I need to write the story of the day when our small group of friends was invited into the most magnificent home I have ever seen. It was in Verona (Italy, not New Jersey) and as we settled into one of the parlors with our host, our very overweight friend sat in the most spindly of (probably priceless) antique chairs, which he rapidly brought crashing down to the floor. The moment hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity. I need to write about that eternity, and I need to write about why I have never written about it before. And I will, just as soon as I find the courage.
To find your own dose of courage — and a lot more good advice — I highly recommend Lavinia Spalding’s book, Writing Away. Then go someplace wonderful and try it out!
Buon viaggo!
Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…
