Writing: Journal or Blog?

Thanks to Maie Liiv for forwarding.

Science Shows Something Surprising About People Who Love to Write
By Rachel Grate September 15, 2014

The benefits of writing go far beyond building up your vocabulary.

No matter the quality of your prose, the act of writing itself leads to strong physical and mental health benefits, like long-term improvements in mood, stress levels and depressive symptoms. In a 2005 study on the emotional and physical health benefits of expressive writing, researchers found that just 15 to 20 minutes of writing three to five times over the course of the four-month study was enough to make a difference.

By writing about traumatic, stressful or emotional events, participants were significantly more likely to have fewer illnesses and be less affected by trauma. Participants ultimately spent less time in the hospital, enjoyed lower blood pressure and had better liver functionality than their counterparts.

It turns out writing can make physical wounds heal faster as well. In 2013, New Zealand researchers monitored the recovery of wounds from medically necessary biopsies on 49 healthy adults. The adults wrote about their thoughts and feelings for just 20 minutes, three days in a row, two weeks before the biopsy. Eleven days later, 76% of the group that wrote had fully healed. Fifty-eight percent of the control group had not recovered. The study concluded that writing about distressing events helped participants make sense of the events and reduce distress.

Even those who suffer from specific diseases can improve their health through writing. Studies have shown that people with asthma who write have fewer attacks than those who don’t; AIDS patients who write have higher T-cell counts. Cancer patients who write have more optimistic perspectives and improved quality of life.

So what is it about writing that makes it so great for you?

James W. Pennebaker has been conducting research on writing to heal for years at the University of Texas at Austin. “When people are given the opportunity to write about emotional upheavals, they often experience improved health,” Pennebaker writes. “They go to the doctor less. They have changes in immune function.”

Why? Pennebaker believes this act of expressive writing allows people to take a step back and evaluate their lives. Instead of obsessing unhealthily over an event, they can focus on moving forward. By doing so, stress levels go down and health correspondingly goes up.

You don’t have to be a serious novelist or constantly reflecting on your life’s most traumatic moments to get these great benefits. Even blogging or journaling is enough to see results. One study found that blogging might trigger dopamine release, similar to the effect from running or listening to music.

From long-term health improvements to short-term benefits like sleeping better, it’s official: Writers are doing something right.


For eons, people have been writing journals. I’ve been doing it for 57 years. The above-printed article starts out talking about journals but ends up talking about blogs. Big difference. A journal is a private collection of writings; a blog is a message to the entire world. When should you write privately for healing and when should you publish your musings?

I believe that most of the time you should confine your comments about your health to (a) your physician, (b) your immediate family, and (c) your three best friends. The state of your body is the most selfish thing there is and dwelling on it is unpleasant and useless for others.

For the past 14 years I have been forced by finances and the federal government to live with old people who are mostly sick people. Currently, I live in a building with 176 apartments, and 91 percent of the tenants are disabled. Everybody is sick. That sucks. There are all kinds of studies showing that people who focus on illness become more ill. Surround yourself with sickness and you become sicker.

I won’t do it. My neighbors spend hours talking about what’s wrong with them. Not me. If you want to dwell on your diseases then don’t expect me to sit with you. I’m so outta here. I will not talk or write about my illnesses. What? You say, “That’s all you do!” There is a catch phrase, which is “What did you learn?”

I write about depression, because we’re still trying to figure out how to cure it. I write about chronic fatigue, because we don’t know what it is. I write about hospitals and rehabs and nursing homes because we are spending 27 zillion dollars of taxpayers’ money on things that don’t work. I hope, God willing, that I am writing some things that provoke thought on how to get healthy, as opposed to writing about every ache, pain, and physical dysfunction, and reveling in it.

So here’s the point: writing about your health may help you be healthier but who would read it? How many complete strangers should have your illnesses inflicted upon them? If you have something for others to learn, then go for the blog.

Other than that, go to the nearest drugstore, buy a paper notebook and keep a journal. You’ll feel just as good and you won’t inflict your pain on the rest of us.

About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
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