Donika Miller's Blog

My Junior year of high school I was required to keep a journal for English class. We were supposed to write in it for two hours a week, and the teacher reserved the right to read everything inside. It took me a while to adjust to both undirected writing-- plucking ideas and images out of thin air-- and letting someone completely inside my head. It was almost as if my teacher was learning the innerworkings of my psyche in real time as I did. For certainly I had no idea what was on my mind until I was forced to record it.

From there writing in my journal became somewhat of an addiction-- not only something I did with idle time, but something I had an extreme urge to do in moments of particular stress. When worried about a friend, or during a nasty parental fight, or while sitting outside the dean's office, I would crave my journal, the way I now crave a glass of wine, to calm down. When I'd go back and read things that seemed so crucial to me at some point, I'd chuckle at how some time and space rendered them at once insignificant and priceless. I remember observing in my journal, "I'm really glad I've been writing this. If for nothing else than to document my life, to pay tribute to the fact that it happened." (Yes, I spoke like that in high school.) When I tried my first short story in there, my teacher, who by then was firmly established as My Favorite Teacher Ever, wrote after it, "Donika, I hope that you stick with writing, because you have the touch." You have the touch... those words promised nothing, but bestowed a lot. After then I felt an encompassing responsibility toward words in everything I did.

That first journal was tragically destroyed during college, when I forgot I stored some sentimental things in the basement of a house scheduled for demolition. While my habit has waxed and waned, somewhere along the line I stumbled upon the perfect notebook for journaling: the Moleskine. I love a servicable product, and this is one whose utility far outweighs its price. The pages are a smooth, durable paper, and the binding provides a flat, hard writing surface no matter where you are. It comes equipped with a bookmarker, an elastic strap to hold it closed, and a secret back pocket for storing clippings and other scraps. On Sunday I thumbed through mine looking for something to write about this week, and when I came up empty, I started rifling through the back pocket. I found a slip of paper I keep in there on purpose, because I always look in that pocket when I'm desperate.

My god, if that doesn't make you want to engage in the ongoing human conversation, I don't know what would. Eagerly, I resumed flipping through my notes, looking for something I could announce to the world. I guess there's some difference between desire and direction? The best I can offer is a silly paragraph I kept returning to and smiling:

It's Eric's birthday and a crisp November evening, so we're standing outside Pub X, sipping pints and grilling the bouncer about his workout routine. A stout, elderly Chinese woman shuffles her brown loafers down the sidewalk in front of us, her head bowed and swaddled in a scarf, her hands clutching her collar closed against the chill. Suddenly Eric's attention snaps to her and he shouts, "Hey, aren't you the lady who sells the porn?!" I glared at Eric to check his behavior, as the woman lifted her head, smiled wide, and cooed, "Yeeeesss." She then opened her DVD-lined coat, and negotiated a birthday special with Eric.

I don't know what I'll do with that scene, but I rather like it. Had I not written it down, it would have been filed into the vague half-memories I'm not sure happened to me or someone else. Instead, I relived, in precise detail, a very human sample of the funny, unexpected things that happen to us every day. It's not funny as written-- yet. It needs more windup, and a crisp, whiplash ending, but the important thing is that I captured the moment truthfully. It'll payoff later.

Here's another moment I'm glad I'll force myself to remember.

The D train* announcer today was out of control. When I got on at 34th he declared, "Our next stop ladies and gentlemen is 42nd street, the historic and now san-i-tized, Dis-ney-fied 42nd Street, where it is safe to bring your chil-dren. Pllllllleeeeeeaaaassse stand clear of the closing doors!" He wasn't announcing the stops, but peforming them. After his exuberant announcement of "Sizzeventh Ave" a black guy sitting across from me leaned into his girlfriend and commented, "Yo, white people hate that shit." I held the Autobiography of Malcolm X I was reading up a little higher to shame him. During the long, non-stop stretch between 59th Street and 125th Street, he did the usual announcements about watching your belongings and reporting suspicious behavior, but did them with his own little flair. Then he broke into an announcement I hadn't heard before, "Ladies and Gentlemen, again I would like to thank you for choosing MTA to move you around town today. We are not the brave police and firemen of this great city, but we are the eemmmM-Tee-Ayyy and we DO, AAAALLLLLLways have, and ALLLLLLways will, run New York." I wanted to stand up and applaud; the guy across from me leaned into his girlfriend again, "He's a good person." By 125th Street, "Home of the world, world, woooOOOoooOOOOooooorrrrrld famous Apollo Theater!" I agreed. It was nice to hear someone put so much heart into what I would imagine is a pretty routine job. Assuming he wasn't drunk, of course.

Based on the above, I considered doing this entry on the importance of finding inspiration everywhere, and approaching everything you do with enthusiasm. That would be insincere, though, as I'm lacking in both right now. Anyone reading would detect me trying to convince myself the most. So I was down to two anecdotes, no ideas, and a promise to myself to update this site once a week. The result, apparently, is pointless entries such as this.

A little trick in editing is to try chopping off the entire first paragraph of any story, chapter, or essay. Many times it makes the piece much crisper, as people tend to do a lot of foot shuffling in the beginning. It's usually superfluous, but just as often is a quick, candid view into the author's attitude toward his writing (Dave Eggers shuffled his feet so much it ascended to the level of a dance). I have a feeling that in a year or so, I'll wish I could lop off my first several entries here. I'll be honest: I have no idea what I want to do, nor what I am doing, with this blog, and for that reason owe an apology to anyone who reads it. I recognize that I'm shuffling my feet and therefore likely wasting your time. At this point you're like my English teacher, inside my skull, watching in real time as I figure out what I have to say. Hopefully, it'll payoff later.

* If you know me, I fully encourage using "D Train" as my nickname.

Contact Me