For my birthday two years ago, my husband presented me with a lovely black leather-bound journal. Instead of a clasp or lock to keep the curious at bay, it is tied with a thin leather rope. The size of a paperback book, it is imported from Italy and the lined pages are the color of a vanilla latte. Like most fine leather goods, my journal has an exquisite aroma, reminding me of all those expensive shoes, jackets, and car interiors I have coveted. The best part is the first page, where he wrote an endearing message: I love you and hope you will always have interesting and joyful entries to write in your journal.

Considering the journal is a mere 200 pages, and two more birthdays have come and gone, it seems I would be getting close to the end. Tragically, I've written only three entries. Three very forced entries:

November 27, 2002: Carl gave me this journal for my birthday. I've never really been a good journal keeper, though.

January 6, 2003: Um, I have nothing to say.

February 15, 2003: I just don't know if I can accomplish this journal-writing thing.

This isn't the first journal I've received as a gift. My friend Renee's mother gave me a journal after I threw Renee a bridal shower. A roommate once gave me a journal for Christmas, as did another friend. At the end of one of my college internships, my supervisor wanted to thank me for all my hard work. She took me out to lunch—and gave me a journal. Once, my mom even gave me a journal value-pack from Costco. Some of these journals date back to the early 90s, but they all sit empty on an overstuffed shelf in my home office.

Somehow, my friends and family believe that because I write for a living, journaling would be a natural way for me to spend my free time. While this is true for some—or perhaps most—writers, it isn't true for me. It's not that my life isn't interesting, either. Like anyone, I've had heaps of journal-worthy experiences. Yet I cannot seem to transform these experiences into words on the pages of a blank book.

When my husband asks if I've filled my birthday journal yet, I feel guilty. The empty pages don't say anything about my appreciation of the gift, but I fear he will see it that way. The truth is, I love my journal—even if it never sees another drop of ink. I keep it near my computer when I'm working so I can admire it. I even spend time admiring other journals at bookstores. Sometimes, I even contemplate a purchase. Then I remind myself that the cash would be better spent on something I would actually use, like a book that already has words in it.

My virtually unused birthday gift, however, has presented me with the opportunity to think through my aversion to journaling. I used to tell myself I didn't have time. When I was working full-time and trying to launch a freelancing writing career simultaneously, time was a factor. But now, I have a lot (if not too much) free time, and I still don't journal. I realize time was just an excuse, an attempt to justify my lack of interest in an activity everyone else thought I should engage in.

The real reasons I don't journal? First of all, I have messy handwriting. I haven't handwritten anything of length since high school, and I am appalled at how illegible I have become. When I look at things I've written, from a phone number jotted down on a sticky note to the payee's name on a check, I cringe. I can't bear the thought of looking back at an old journal and seeing those horrible scribbles. Second of all, a journal feels like a rough draft, only you can't go back and hit "delete" if you don't like a sentence. I can always go back later and rewrite a document saved on my hard drive, but I can't do that with a journal. Journalers have to be OK with the journal's rough-draft nature. Otherwise, it wouldn't be a journal. Third, there is the part about putting my personal thoughts down on paper. What if someone snoops around my house, stumbles upon my journal, and decides to read it? Suddenly, my personal thoughts are not so personal anymore. Finally, I just don't enjoy journaling. For me, it is an arduous task, comprised of dread and mental angst.

I know my fellow scribes could give me a long list of legitimate reasons for journaling (stress relief, creative inspiration, and problem solving come to mind), and I have tried desperately to become a journaler. I've sat with my journal at coffee shops and parks, hoping the mood to write will strike. I've purchased special pens. I've even attempted to start with a particular topic in mind. No matter what, I always end up writing a variation of the same old sentence. Um, I have nothing to say.

The possibility does remain that I will change. I could morph overnight into a journal-writing junkie, filling pages upon pages of journal after journal. The more likely scenario? I'll one day own a large collection of beautiful, blank journals, given to me as thoughtful gifts.