I am currently reading When Women Were Birds by Terry Tempest Williams. On her deathbed Terry's mother said, "I am leaving you all my journals." At the next full moon Terry opened them to find that they were all empty. Terry is left to wonder what can she "glean from the furrows" of the empty journals.
The most beautiful words cannot be written, unfortunately. Fortunately. We would have to be able to write with our eyes, with wild eyes, with the tears of our eyes, with the frenzy of a gaze, with the skin of our hands.
-Terry Tempest Williams, When Woman Were Birds, p 151.