And He Will Write For Life
There’s the one with a reproduction of the famous Japanese artwork called the “The Great Wave of Kanagawa” on the cover, given to me by my sister-in-law.
That one stays on my night stand where I record my dreams and make lists.
There’s the leatherbound one Randy, my friend from my MFA program, gave me as a graduation present that’s on the top shelf of my book case. I take that one trips.
There’s the recycled cardboard and soy ink paper composition book with illustrations of Mexican luchadores on it where I’m writing my next novel.
There are stacks of Moleskines of all sizes (I like the carnet sizes the best) in boxes and drawers, most of them filled from cover to cover with random musings and notes to myself about other things I’m writing.
There are the hardback journals I brought to Mexico and Spain and Australia, multiple spiral bound one-subject notebooks I filled up in college, and stacks of hotel stationary and reporters’ notebooks that occupy a significant space in my traveler’s trunk of memories.
There are electronic files starting in 2000 and going until about 2015 on my computer, and most recently, there are tens of subject headings in my Simplenote app where I squirrel away all those whispers from the ether to my brain.
Oh, and there’s another new addition to my lifetime of soon-to-be filled journals. The simple stack of printer paper my 6-year-old son stapled together saying, “I made a book for you, Dad. When are you going to write in it?”
Soon.
Eventually.
I am certain at some point in my life, I will fill up that journal, too. I always do. It’s pretty much the only thing I know how to with ease.
Where some men build skyscrapers, and others operate on hearts, where some drive trucks and other manage money, I write.
I am a writer.
Give me a journal, and I will write for life.
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Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash