A blank page inspires me. Whether plain or lined, the page asks me to fill it. The scrambled thoughts in my head surge down my arms to my fingers until they spill onto the page. The ambiguous cloud of thoughts forms structured lines of processed thoughts. The page fills as letters form words, words form sentences, and sentences form paragraphs. My thoughts become reality: I am writing.
I speak through writing. To whom do I speak? Myself. Yes, I enjoy talking to others. In fact, Dad says sometimes I hardly know when to shut up, but sometimes I need to talk to myself. Writing my thoughts down allows me to think through them more clearly. I balance the pros and cons; I think through situations from multiple angles. I write. I don’t edit or evaluate what spills onto the page. Nouns don’t always agree with their verbs, and that’s ok. I simply write, letting the thoughts flow, unedited.
Writing nails my feet to the floor—keeps me from floating away on cloud nine. Evaluations come later, when I take the time to read my thoughts on the page.
Every year Dad feeds my writing habit by giving me a new journal. I prefer leather-bound, lined journals. The leather binding gives flexibility and the lined pages satisfy my obsessive desire for neatness. Journals of various shapes, colors, and sizes line my bookshelves. The thoughts that fill the journals vary as widely as the journals themselves. My personality fills every journal, every page, and every line. Journaling bans nothing. I write about everything—my hopes and my fears, my dreams and my disasters. Thoughts escape and live as I write them down.
Words, once absent, now fill this page. What will fill the pages of my next journal? Words, thoughts, life—me.
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