Journaler's Routine No. 4: Debbie Millman

"I realized these weren’t just diary entries. They were witnesses to living and persevering."

Welcome to the fourth installment of the Journaler’s Routine—a summer series I’m doing in collaboration with Random House, where I ask contributors from The Book of Alchemy to share their private creative rituals.

The other day I came across these words from Audre Lorde:

I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.

I felt the truth of that immediately.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve kept something to myself—not out of choice, exactly, but fear. Or shame. And how quickly that silence can become a wall between me and the world. But when we do speak—when we offer up what’s real—we find something else entirely: connection, recognition, the quiet relief of being seen.

Still, the risk of sharing what’s deepest in us can feel enormous. Too tender, too vulnerable to hold up to sunlight. For me, the journal is where I begin. It’s where I lay things down—not to solve them, but to understand them. It’s where I give form to what I don’t yet have words for.

This is also true for today’s featured guest: award-winning designer, educator, curator, podcast host, author—and someone I’m proud to call a friend—

Debbie Millman

. I’m so honored to share her reflections on the journal as witness, and on the quiet, accumulative healing that happens when we let the page hold what we’re not yet ready to say aloud.

And now, Debbie’s routine—

---

When did you start keeping a journal and what inspired you to begin?

I started writing a makeshift diary on a large yellow legal pad in 1974; I was in the seventh grade. I don’t know why I started at that time other than these were the darkest years of my life and I imagine I needed a confidante. My mother had gotten divorced from my father three years earlier and she remarried nine months later. My stepfather was a cruel and violent man; he sexually and physically abused me for years. I didn’t write about any of the abuse at that time, but it was clear I was a sad little girl. Writing became a solace of sorts.

Is consistency important to you? What helps you return to the page?

Yes and no. In addition to journals, I’ve been recording my life in two-year datebooks for over 30 years. I include pretty much everything in them—notes, appointments, lists, thoughts, ideas, phone numbers, passwords—if it is important, it is in there, and I take it everywhere, all the time. My journaling has evolved over time; sometimes it is sporadic, other times it is daily. In addition to writing, I now create visual stories. I combine illustrations, photography, and writing to describe and share myriad events, experiences, and thoughts. What keeps me returning is this: my love of record keeping, my desire to keep making things and to better understand my place in the world.

Can you tell us about a moment when keeping a journal unlocked something for you, personally or creatively?

Klaus Mann once wrote, “Memories are made of peculiar stuff, elusive and yet compelling, powerful and fleet. You cannot trust your reminiscences, and yet there is no reality except the one we remember.” I’ve often looked back on my life and wondered: Were my memories real? Was the past truly how I remember it?

Some years ago, I reread a journal I kept during my college years, in 1982. I came upon an entry wherein I candidly described what was happening to me during the dark years of 1974, and how helpless and alone I felt. I found myself holding my breath as I realized these weren’t just diary entries or memories. They were evidence of a life. They were my witnesses to living and persevering.

What’s your favorite journal and writing utensil?

I don’t have a favorite journal; I am an equal opportunity journaler. I mostly use notebooks given out in tote bags at conferences; I have some from the TED Conference, Cannes Lions, and the Aspen Ideas Festival, and I love to fill them up. I also designed a journal for Baron Fig that I enjoy writing in, though it is often a challenging experience. My favorite utensil is a mechanical Paper-Mate Sharpwriter #2. It’s utilitarian; I buy them by the box, and it’s all I ever write with.

If your journals were read posthumously, what, if anything, would you want destroyed?

Funny you should ask. My mother gave me two of my grandmother’s journals after she passed. One is from 1929, the other from 1975. The journal from 1929 recounts the first year she met the man she would marry and who—decades later—would become my grandfather. The journal from 1975 details a cross-country trip she took with her son and his wife, a few years after my grandfather had passed. They are fascinating and glorious and poignant. Someday I will pass them on to one of my nieces.

As for my journals: I wouldn’t ask for them to be destroyed, per se, and anyone could read them. Though I wouldn’t mind if they were cremated with me and then spread—along with my ashes—in some of the lightest and happiest places I’ve been.

---

Today’s Contributor—

Named “one of the most creative people in business” by Fast Company, “one of the most influential designers working today” by Graphic Design USA, and a “woman of influence” by Success Magazine, Debbie Millman is a designer, educator, curator, host of the long-­running, award-­winning podcast Design Matters, and the author of eight books, most recently Love Letter to a Garden. Debbie co-­founded the world’s first graduate program in branding at the School of Visual Arts in New York City in 2010, and she is also president emeritus of the American Institute of Graphic Arts (AIGA)—­one of only five women to hold the position in the organization’s hundred-­ year history. She was awarded a lifetime achievement award from AIGA in 2019.