I started carrying a notebook when I was
about 15. Not for any particular class
or reason, it was just kind of a spare that I doodled in, wrote bits and scraps
of stories, and mindlessly penned song lyrics in. That notebook would eventually become what I
referred to as, “My Journal” - the first edition, anyway. There were many editions – I called all of
them, “My Journal”.
I always had one – loose leaf, spiral
bound, whatever color suited my fancy when the last page of my previous journal
was filled. Of course,
this was before you had phones that were basically little computers. Back when handwriting was what you did to get
the idea down somewhere until you could get to your computer.
On each of these editions I scrawled, “My
Journal” – it was written in permanent marker or scratched so deep into the laminated
colorful exterior of the notebook in ballpoint pen as to make it permanent. The outside of the journal would get
decorated over the course of its use in a myriad of ways. Phone numbers would be jotted down on the
fly, little doodles of characters or scenery peaked from this tattered corner
or that. I remember one journal
specifically having a sticker on the front that read, “Hot and Spicy Italian”. It was from a package of sausage, but I
thought it was amusing. Yes, I’ve always
been easily amused.
I carried it with me everywhere. No, literally, everywhere. When I started driving, it was with me – I might
leave it in the car, but only when I was somewhere that the journal might be
compromised (read as beer soaked or otherwise degraded). There
was a box, and each edition would be placed on top of its predecessors as it
was retired. And a bright sparkly new
journal would take its place in my every day.
My first novel was penned in
notebooks. Three of them. The entire rough draft was hand written. The first revision was the one that I keyed
in to my computer. That’s the only time
I’ve handwritten a long piece. It was
crap. But the process was slightly
cathartic. Even when I was writing that
novel, I had a “Journal” – separate from the novel notebooks, all its own.
See, that’s what the journal is for
me. It’s not a place to write out long
fiction. It’s a place to play. To write rough ideas of whatever it is I’m
working on – outlines, character sketches, sometimes just bits of dialogue that
pop into my head and I don’t know where to put them… but they’re too cool to
just chalk up to nothing. To noodle
ideas, draft silliness, and otherwise spark my mind into action – most especially
when it’s sluggish and unwilling to stop procrastinating.
My journals in the last few years never
seem to get finished. I still have
one. My current edition is blue. The outside cover does not proclaim that it
is “MY JOURNAL”. It’s a run of the mill
notebook in every conceivable way – except that it’s mine. There are bits of query letters. Notes from resumes I’ve written freelance (a
mark of the economy, I suppose). Notes
of markets to check and checklists of tasks that are writing and home related
in a hodgepodge that I may or may not get back to… but the act of writing it
down somehow cements it in my head.
Because that’s how I am – I’m a words person. I think in words, not pictures. I kind of miss the stickers and doodles,
though… the bits proclaiming to the outside world that it’s mine, and I’m weird…
and raspberries to you if you don’t get me.
Last week, I went to grab my notebook
off the dining room table before leaving for work. I do that, still. Grab it and keep it in the car, so that I can
jot things down if I have time on my lunch break. Only, my notebook was gone. Of course, I could have found another
notebook to use, but I didn’t want another one.
I wanted mine. Because it’s
mine. Funny the things you’re hard
pressed to relinquish. I almost made
myself late for work looking for it, and came up empty handed.
Two more days passed and I still couldn’t
find it. And then, I walked into my
daughter’s room to put her laundry on her bed and noticed a notebook open on
her pillow. The top two pages were handwritten
– what looked like song lyrics but I didn’t read them, because they weren’t
mine. The notebook, however was
mine. I tore the pages out and left them
on her bed. When she came home, I
mentioned it to her:
Me:
Hey, I left your work on your bed.
But that notebook is mine.
Gracie Girl: Huh? You didn’t read it, did you?
Me:
No. That’s yours. The notebook’s mine.
Gracie Girl: Well, don’t read it. It’s a song and it’s not done. And I didn’t know it was YOUR notebook. It just looked like a notebook. And I needed one.
Me:
You’ve got a ton of notebooks.
Gracie Girl: Those are school notebooks. Or music notebooks. I needed a different notebook.
Okay, that sounded familiar. When I went out to the store that night, I
grabbed a little something extra. I
knocked on Gracie’s door when I got home.
Gracie Girl: Yeah.
Me:
(opening the door) Here, I got
this for you.
I held up a brand new shiny
notebook. Plain, college ruled loose
leaf, spiral bound.
Gracie Girl: *Jumping off the bed* Yay!
For me? Yay!
She literally hugged it. She’s had it with her every day. When she goes to sleep, it’s next to her
pillow. When she leaves for school, it’s
in her arm, not in her bookbag with the boring, old school notebooks. Apparently that “My Journal” thing is
hereditary.
