Sunday, June 25, 2006

From the Past

While cleaning out some stuff, I came across an old notebook with the following entry written in May of 1994:

I'm sitting here on a cloudy Sunday morning, dishes piled in the sink, kids watching TV, floor in desperate need of vacuuming, Charlie tugging at me. I should be getting ready for church. Instead I'm scribbling away in this notebook, asking myself why do I want to write? I come from a family tradition of writing. My mother writes poetry from time to time. Both of us enjoy buying journals and notebooks with their crisp clean paper, anticipating filling them with wonderous thoughts and then piling them up, forlorn and forgotten on dusty shelves because our lives are just too distracting to write. My favorite time in school was always the beginning. Not just for the starting over, but for the thrill of new notebooks. I loved the first page, eagerly anticipating the first notes to be jotted down, always neatly with appropriate headings underlined. September held the promise of new beginnings, it was fresh. Of course, by October this freshness would wear off. By now the notebooks were familiar, the promises a little jaded and school was always the same. I'm still a stationary "junkie" in September. I've even bought notebooks and scrapbooks under the pretense of doing something for the kids but it was really just to relive that thrill of crisp, clean pages. Notebooks can also lead to writer's block, because I have always had that feeling that the first page should be perfect and with a clear purpose. But life is not the crisp new page in a notebook.

So here I am, twelve years later. I still love new notebooks, but I have conquered the expectation of a perfect first page. I've learned that writing is the continual action of putting pen to paper, or connecting fingers to keyboard. And I still buy scrapbooks and notebooks, but I happily own up that they are for me - no hiding behind the kids - and I'm quite content to get messy in them! * o

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