Here I am again.

Starting another empty volume.

Sitting, drinking coffee.

Wondering what will become of my life.

- July 19, 2003

This post is part 2 in a series entitled Symbols of Redemption. For part 1, click here. For part 2, click here.

On July 19, 2003, I began my eleventh journal with the words above.

“Here I am again.”

They were words of recognition…

“Starting another empty volume.”

… of repetition…

“Sitting, drinking coffee.”

… tied to a dream of being a writer in a noisy café–coffee in hand–watching the world swirl and dance and provide input to the pen…

“Wondering what will become of my life.”

… almost undone by a fear of never becoming the person I was called to be.

This was my first journal. My first real journal. The rest were just practice, more sketchbooks and scratchpads than a binding of mirrors for every day of my life.

This one was different, probably because I was different. Or maybe I was different and ready.

Or maybe I was no different, and it was just time.

The words “Rehab Journal,” which I wrote on the inside cover, came from that first entry:

Maybe the purpose of this journal should be REHAB. To make me a writer again. A novel idea, I think. And one I shall try. In fact, I will make a deal with my rehab journal that I will write in these pages as often as I can until its pages are filled. If, after I have marked every inch of paper herein, I don’t feel like the writer God wishes to make me, I’ll give it up forever. Until then, I cannot put off the discovery of my life’s true journey another day, minute or second.

So I began writing, as often as I could, in keeping with my promise. And as nice as those words above may sound, I cannot say that I wrote every day for six months, closed the journal and gave a Tiger Woods fist-pump to the cafe full of people wondering if they should get their coffee to-go. Instead:

In 2003, I filled 68 pages.

In 2004, I filled 27.

In 2005, 12.

After two-and-a-half years, there wasn’t a good trend in the making. It’s a good thing I didn’t do any of these page-counts until later.

But something was better than nothing, even in 2005, where I averaged a single page per month. Besides, the deal wasn’t done until the journal was full.

So I kept going.

In 2006, I wrote 59 pages.

Then, In 2007, I wrote 75.

And on October 25, 2007, with an early morning audience of one dog and one cat, I finished that journal.

The next day, I started another one.

Five days later, I started the next phase of my journey by starting a novel.

Thirty days after that, I finished the first draft.

Six months later, my next journal is almost full.

Today, I am journaling, blogging and writing nearly every single day.

But none of those things, as things themselves, really matter. I certainly am not trying to brag. I didn’t say the novel was any good, after all.

It doesn’t even really matter what exactly changed from 2005 to 2006. Something or things did change, even if I cannot name them all. Some switch was flipped, though I was likely not the one to flip it.

What does matter is what I wrote on the very last line of my Rehab Journal–in big block letters–after four years completing the deal I made on the first pages:

I am a writer.

Those words summarized my journey. Not of four years, but of twelve, from the moment I wrote my first words in January of 1996.

The internal doubts and debate over my calling? Closed with the back cover of that journal.

So then what of the things? What of that black leather bound journal, the black Moleskine I write in today, the 250 pages of my novel-in-progress and the half-dozen short stories I’ve written since?

These are good things. Things that I smile to think about. But in themselves, they cannot be a source of pride, because it is not by my strength that they are true.

But they do count for something. A lot, actually.

They are symbols of redemption.

My redemption.

Symbols of Redemption – Part 1

Symbols of Redemption – Part 2

This post is part 2 in a series entitled Symbols of Redemption. For part 1, click here.

Last week, in part one of this series, I talked about my many incomplete journals. I admitted that I’m pretty good about coming up with new ideas and starting new things, but that I often have trouble carrying those ideas to completion.

Because this is so much a part of my personality, my journals became symbols of incompleteness beyond the blank pages themselves. They were symbols of brokenness, a lack of discipline, and all the unfinished ideas I couldn’t muster the strength to finish.

And often, those symbols led to guilt over what could have been, but wasn’t.

For some, guilt is a process of recognizing a mistake or flaw, and then taking corrective action. These days, that’s usually how I operate.

But in the Brandon Satrom era of 1997-2003, guilt was usually a prelude to pity, self-doubt and even more guilt.

I still remember those feelings. The enemy was very, very good at putting me in that place.

Any guesses on what would have been the last thing I wanted to do when I was trapped in the guilt cycle?

Write? Journal? Exactly.

Over time, the journaling slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

And then change came With another journal, in June of 2003. But not because there was another new journal, or because of how I obtained it.

Change came because it was time for change. God was at work, as he always had been.

The journal was from a friend. I was a groomsman in his wedding, and as a gift, he gave each of us something chosen with each individual in mind. He knew that I had a passion for writing, and so he presented me with a leather-bound journal.

It was a very thoughtful gift, and I was both honored and touched.

But the truth was that, by this point, I hadn’t written in a journal for years. The guilt cycle was so engrained that I’d almost forgotten it was there.

So I thanked my friend and put the journal aside, not really knowing what I would do with it.

In the days and weeks after, I began to wonder if it was time to try again.

After a month, I knew it was. Somehow, I knew it had to be different this time.

It was time to recover.

So, on July 19, 2003, I opened the cover of that leather-bound journal and wrote two words in large print on the page.

“Rehab Journal”

A journal of rehabilitation. A journal of change and growth. Somehow, I knew even then what was taking place. It was the beginning of another chapter. This one with the themes of completion, restoration and redemption.

This time, I knew it was time to finish. And, by finishing, it was time to start something new.

At the time, I had no clue that finishing would take four years…

1. That’s not even overlap. It’s more like one journal was nested inside the other. Does that even make sense?
2. Let’s assume that you actually did
3. Even today, I still browse the journal sections at B&B or Borders, though I hardly ever buy. I’ve become too much of a Moleskine snob.

Fast forward to three weeks ago, when LL Barkat posted about some social media sites for writers she discovered while preparing for a talk at the Mount Hermon Writer’s Conference. One of those sites was Zimbio.

So I went to check Zimbio out. This is new, I thought. This site let’s you create your own theme-based wikizines, post your blog content, share links and video and even author content on the site.

“I think I shall sign up,” I said excitedly.

Click, click, click.

Type, type, type.

Error: We’re sorry, but the email address you entered is already in use.

“What?!?”

Eyes glance to site header.

“Zimbio… sounds familiar. Do I already have an account here?”

Enter typical username and possible password.

“Welcome TheSatch!²”

Yeah, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened to yours truly³. In any case, either Zimbio has made some changes (they have) or I just needed to focus for a minute to see the site’s value (I did), because I am really digging the site now.

I’ve joined a few wikizine’s (see links below), contributed some content and have even gotten a few Kudos. (Thanks LL and Mark!)

They’ve snagged me with the kudos. Sarah can tell you that I am all about the kudos.

This morning, I decided to start a wikizine, which I am calling the Journal Journey. I thought it would be cool to have a place were people could talk about journal-writing, their love for bound volumes of blank paper⁴ and even share images of or entries from their journals, as I am prone to do.

So check it out, I’d love to hear your thoughts and read your entries. I am free with the kudos too…

Irrational love for Moleskine’s not required. But it helps.

Zimbio Links

Stone Crossings

For Writers

Fiction Writing

The Journal Journey

1. I have a touch of the ADD dontcha know?
2. TheSatch is a variation on “Satch,” a nickname I’ve had since college. I believe the “The” started because “Satch” started showing up taken. Probably by me.
3. I like shiny baubles
4. because I know it’s not just me, right?

Today, I have nothing better to blog.

Last night, I found myself once again thumbing through my first journal. I tend to keep an old journal or two close at hand because they serve as instant triggers for reminiscing. They are also incontrovertible proof that cocky kids grow up to be humble, kind and meek adults¹.

As I was nosing around in the middle of my 1996 journal, I came across a half-page entry that made me smile and laugh at my crazy seventeen-year-old assured self. Since no good joke should go unshared, I knew I had to post it here.

And so I give you, tongue planted firmly in cheek, an entry from June 20, 1996:

Isn’t it glorious?

Four things:

1) I appear to have left plenty of space for “my masterpiece.” Apparently, my contribution to all of art is to be a single haiku.
2) I can’t really draw.
3) Why do people write diagonally when scrawling things across the page?
4) That alien is not giving you the finger.

The peace-sign-wielding alien in this picture was copied from the liner notes of George Clinton and the P-Funk Allstars’ T.A.P.O.A.F.O.M. (The Awesome Power of a Fully Operational Mothership). I was really into George Clinton as a teenager.

I still am. I saw the Funk master in Austin in the fall of 1996 with Fishbone and De La Soul.

It was awesome.

And it reminds me now that I haven’t talked much about music on this blog, which is quite out of character. I’m a music junkie, and that has played a big role in my writing.

Next time then.

1. who am I kidding here? Cocky kids grow up to be narcissistic adults, but I am still a nice guy, really.

In January of 1996, I walked into a grocery store in Shrewsbury, MA with my father and my sister. I was seventeen . I don’t recall where exactly the store was, why we where there, or what we bought while there, save one item. The first journal I ever owned.

I remember walking down the aisle with the school supplies and glancing down at the notebooks lined up on display. I looked quickly over the spirals and spotted the familiar black and white marbled cover of PenTab Composition Books. I leaned over to pick one up and held it in my hands.

I remember the way it felt. The cover, nothing more than cardboard, felt new and exciting. Inside lay 100 blank blue-lined pages ready to be filled with all of the brilliance my seventeen year-old mind cared to impress upon them¹. I imagined that I would make quick work of this Composition Book, and many more just like it to come.

The price, $3.99 I believe, was just right, so I secured this new treasure with the excitement I usually reserved for book or video game purchases. I carried the journal out of the store with the adrenaline of excitement and possibility. This was the beginning of something significant, I told myself.

Later that night, I marked the composition book as my own. On the first line, I wrote my name, Brandon D. Satrom. On the second, I wrote the following line:

Let the Good Times Roll.

I think I was listening to a BB King song of that same name when I wrote that. Maybe it was someone else, or maybe I wasn’t listening to anything. In any case, it seemed fitting. I thought that the beginning of journaling was the beginning of good times.²

A few days later, I wrote my first entry. January 6th, 1996 to be exact. It was on an American Airlines flight with my sister back to San Antonio, TX (Where we lived) from Boston, MA (Where  my father lives). I remember opening the journal with my pen in hand and staring for a few moments at the first page.

No words. Nothing.

I didn’t know what to say. So I figured I’d copy a few lines out of a book I was reading at the time³ as a way to get me started.

That didn’t work, so I drew a squiggly line beneath the quote and a silly title for what was to be my first entry, and started talking about inspiration and ambition before drawing an artist’s rendering of a wormhole and writing what could be called my first poem⁴. The pictures above and below should give you a general idea, just don’t expect larger versions of these photos if you click on them. It’s for your own protection.

And on two pages, that was my first journal entry in my first journal, just over twelve years ago. It wasn’t anything monumental or magical, but it was the beginning of something. Many things actually. Most importantly, it was the beginning of journaling itself, which is my anchor as a writer, whether I am journaling in response to my faith, writing play-by-play recaps of who knows what, madly trying to capture story ideas before I lose them, or scribbling intelligent-sounding things just to see the sound of my own voice, which my wife could tell you I am quite fond of. It’s a little bit of all of that and more for me.

I have much more to say about journaling and it’s purpose in writing, but I’ll save all of those for another day. For now, I just wanted to share another piece of who I am with you.

Thanks for listening.

- B

While writing this, I was listening to “Strip My Mind” by Red Hot Chili Peppers

1. And when I was seventeen, I was convinced that this mind held a lot of brilliance…
2. Who am I kidding? This is a silly title for a journal. I still laugh at it when I see it, but you should see what I put on the cover of my second composition book. For another day…
3. The Social Contract by Jean-Jacques Rousseau… I’m not kidding. This is also another story for another day
4. but not by me

That story is long gone as far as I know. My mom might actually still have it in a box somewhere, but I certainly don’t. Not that I would tell you if I did have it, the rocket-ship illustrations are enough to send one running from the room, trust me.

And I have no remorse that the Space Hero story is lost, because what it said doesn’t matter. What does matter to me is that the Space Hero story was my green light; a starting point on my current journey. “This is where it all began,” it might say on a brushed metal plate placed under a display copy of that story in some small-town museum. And mothers would shield the eyes of their children from the horror that is those illustrations. (I’m not kidding, those graphite disasters are seared in my mind.)

Next came the journals. Thirteen of them to be exact. My first entry was in January of 1996 and my latest was today. From the age of seventeen, I have journaled. Sometimes I journaled with the zest and fire of a man with something to say which needed to escape and make its way onto the page (i.e. after a breakup); and sometimes it was with the boredom and droll of an overgrown boy who’d rather be playing Goldeneye on his Nintendo 64 (i.e. mostly during college). But I would write. I’d write poems, write down fragments of stories, vent about anything, or just journal my own struggles and issues. No matter how much, how little or even what I wrote, my journals served as a thin lifeline to the writer I always wished to become. That creek-bed of inspiration wasn’t enough to warrant a bridge for crossing, but it was water nonetheless, and I never let it dry completely over the span of nearly ten years.

Three years ago, that creek became a stream as I started a blog about professional topics of interest.² I have a steadily growing number of subscribers and have managed to get the attention of a few notable people in my industry from whom I crave approval and of whom you’ve likely never heard. That’s been a satisfying exercise, and, in tandem with the writing I do often for my job, keeps me feeling as though I am actively using the gifts and talents with which I believe God has blessed me. I plan to continue that blog for as long as I can because I am passionate about the work I do and the organization for which I work. But the writer always wants more. The seven year old in me wants to tell new stories, not just arrange words in new ways.

So, this last November, I signed up for NaNoWriMo. I discovered NaNoWriMo back in 2005 and was fascinated with the idea of writing a novel in a compressed period of time. I work much better under a deadline and thought that 50,000 words in thirty days was just the crazy thing I needed to turn that stream into a small river.

It worked. As a first-time participant, I wrote over 54,000 words and completed the draft for my first novel. And the best part about it was that I loved every moment that I was sitting at my computer way too early in the morning and pounding out prose that only a mother could love³. I felt centered; connected to who I am and who I am meant to be. It was exhilarating.

And it was easy⁴. I didn’t want to sleep for 5 days after I finished my novel, I wanted to keep going. To write to 80k, 100k and beyond. It was then that writing became more than a hobby or some silly dream for me. It became an obsession. Something I wanted to continue and cause to increase, in both volume and quality.

Now I am editing my novel, which I plan to complete in the first part of 2008. Over the past several weeks, as I have shifted from the joy of drafting to the bloodletting of editing, I’ve managed to maintain that obsession, which I see as a good sign considering how much needs to change in my first draft. I’ve also decided that it’s time to put the writerly side of myself online. So I created this site dedicated to writing and becoming a writer, which is nothing short of a redemptive experience for me (thus the title of this blog, but more on that later). My goal is to have a place where I can share and reflect on my journey to this point, share in the joy and pain yet to come as I continue to write, and to learn from the many talented artists of all walks whom I’ve already encountered online and in life. I only hope that your brilliance will rub off on me in the crossing of bits and bytes.

It’s been a long introduction, I know, but I’ve got twenty-two years of history which led me to this. You got the short and pithy version; stick around and you’ll get the long and drawn-out version over time.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I can’t wait to create great art with you. You’ll need to do the drawing and painting, of course.

- Brandon

While writing this, I was listening to “Almost Flew” by Jeff Caylor

Technorati Tags: Writing, Blogging

1. At least, I think it was when I was seven. This assertion is based purely on my memory. This was long before Twitter, so I am not 100% certain what I was doing those days
2. I am an Enterprise Architect for Compassion International, a Child Sponsorship Ministry based in Colorado Springs, CO and my blog, User InExperience, is about Technology and Enterprise Architecture
3. Sarah loves it too, but she doesn’t have to
4. Easy does not in this case mean that the work produced was good. Just that it was easy to write over 50,000 words of clunky dialogue, incoherent descriptions and repetitive exposition