Journal, Diary, Notebook, Planner, Organizer...those are words that turn me on like "Fifty Shades of Gray" might to someone else. I've kept a diary since the age of 11 -- the lock-and-key type, where each page started with "Dear Diary." Soon enough, those little books just weren't cutting it. I escalated to composition books -- at one time, I had two of them duct-taped together, back to front, for continuity. They were not so much to enable me to record all the significant events. My mindset, in my teens and 20s, was entirely inwardly focused. Elvis and the Pope could have set up camp outside the front door, and I'd have made no note of it if I were embroiled in some inner crisis.
Shortly before my son was born, I made the decision to ditch every single diary I had. Many years, many pages. They're out in a landfill somewhere, I have no doubt, and that's exactly where they belong. All these years later, I have not regretted the decision to throw them away. They contributed very little to my life. Until Wally was about 5, the most "journaling" I did was maintaining a pocket calendar. Gradually, I stopped navel-gazing and started looking up and around, recording the events and moments that really mattered.