24 Days of Grateful [Day 7]
This is my journal of the moment. It sits in my desk, a place I rarely actually write, and waits for me to open it and start scribbling. It has poetry, a map that I drew to get my brain straight for NaNoWriMo, a bunch of random outlines, and lots of arrows (anyone else do that?)
I am a journal addict. I can’t resist Barnes & Noble or Marshall’s when they have pretty notebooks waiting for me to fill, or just carry around in my purse and jot down scraps of thought. I am always, always grateful for journals, because they are the most tangible thing about being a writer. I like blogging and the ease of the Internet and Microsoft Word, but I love ink-stained callouses and paper crinkled from tea spills. I love soft journals with inspirational quotes and hard ones that have a magnet so they close crisply. I love journals that I can categorize into prayers, poetry, to-do lists, or blog ideas. I’m grateful that I do not need to plug them in to be creative and that all I need is a pen and sometimes a ribbon to hold my place. And if there is no ribbon, it means I have to flip through pages and re-read passages I wrote before. Sometimes they make sense. Oftentimes they don’t. No matter what, I learn.
I’ve got boxes of them, and I can never part with a single one. They are my story in every slanted half-cursive word because I never did learn how to hold a pen the way my first-grade teacher wanted. I’m grateful that I write half-slanted, and that I have journals to write in. Many of the world’s classic literature and genius poetry was written on thin paper with quills and by candlelight. I can’t have a candle because it might set my apartment on fire, but I can have a journal. A little bit of the craft, the realism, the soul of writing. So I keep three by my bed, one in my purse, two in my desk, and a lifetime in boxes. I’m grateful for each and every one, because I remember what it felt like to make those inky words lean into lines.