When I was young, I imagined writers curled up on window benches, wearing knotty sweaters, drinking cinnamon-orange tea, and scribbling the pearls of their existence.
I don’t do that.
I don’t even really use phrases like “the pearls of their existence.”
But I do scribble. I have little notebooks tucked here and there all over my cozy condo. Cheap ones with blue lines and wire-spiral spines. I’m intimidated of those exquisitely bound hardback numbers, the ones sold in bookstores on the displays next to the greeting cards. When gifted such beauties, I tend to display rather than use them as intended. But I like the look.
How about you? A bit of the same perhaps? It’s a dreamy, brainstorming, logic plotting and observational way to live and write. Granted, our friends and family might be justified if they become a bit frazzled as we dash off a few notes in our journal after they’ve made a particularly astute observation, tried something new, or spilled a Diet Coke down the front of their T-shirts.
All we can promise in return is to try to be more discreet in our scribbling.
We have given ourselves a gift. We create worlds. We invent heroes. We think really hard about what makes chocolate so satisfying and call it work.
Nothing is wasted. The worst times, the ones where we thought we just couldn’t anymore…those may surprise us, reward us with creative ideas and insights, all for seeing it through.
So, by all means, keep scribbling.