Write Here

I am a pro journalist.  I’m not talking published works that change the world.  I’m talking volumes of diaries.  There is a box buried in the attic stuffed with at least 20 journals and loose-leaf paper all scribbled over with my dreams, routines, and childish rants.  That does not include the pile of leather bound journals stacked next to my bed, nor my moleskins tucked away in purses and bags.  And don’t get me started on how many sketch journals I have.  I could never bear to get rid of the papered mess that I have, although I’m sure half of it may be quite worthless.  When the pencil becomes gripped between my fingers and touches to paper, history is made.  It is not your history, nor anyone’s but mine.  My writings and drawings are important to me.  More than important, actually, they are invaluable.  I not only crave to record my every moment, but I feel that it is my duty.  When I do not put pencil to paper, I feel as if I have left a memory to disappear and fade into the back of my mind.  Maybe someday it will be recalled, but more often than not, it shrivels to dust and is completely forgotten. 

I ache when I cannot relive a moment perfectly.  If I leave an experience to shelve away in my mind, details are forgotten, circumstances are altered, the true memory is compromised and my own past changes.  Good or bad, my experiences must be tangible.  I must be able to grip them within my own hands and see them with my own eyes. 

For the last two years, my journal has laid quietly next to my bed.  Every two months or so I pick it up and scribble, “Not much has changed.  I’ll write again when I have something more exciting to report.”  Now, how ridiculous can I be?  My true reasons for not writing are incredibly selfish:  I’m tired, I’m bored, I’m angry, I’m just not in the mood.  Truly, there is no excuse for not writing, and truly life is not so bad that I have nothing to write about.  I must record my experiences, my passions, my dislikes, my loves, and my dreams.  I cannot go on allowing my experiences to fade to abbreviated memories and be recorded incorrectly when I am “in the mood.”  I must pick up the pace and not leave out a single detail.

An experiment is about to begin.  Maybe what I need is a change.  I need a fresh look, a new feel, something updated and exciting.  So, here I am recording my stories and memories with my keyboard.  It’s not a pencil, but I’d like to think of it so.  I have much to share and offer with my rambling words on a page.  I have thoughts and experiences worth sharing.  This experiment is very much for myself, but if you find yourself here as well, I will gladly sit back and love to learn of your thoughts and experiences as well.  Life must be recorded, and what better way than through words on a page?