A brand new notebook. It's a thing of such exquisite beauty that I begin to weep. The pen in my hand is nervous, like a first date. Once I begin to write, this notebook will never be the same. The ideas flow, partly based on the medium chosen to channel them. Any writer knows this. Growing up before word processors or home computers, in a time when even typewriters were too expensive for families like mine, I came to adore paper. In almost a mystical sense, I feel a growing thrill when faced with completely blank pages. Writing can be so visceral, so physical. I can get lost in it, as if I'm following the folds in my gray matter to places I never knew I had. The results, whether any publishers like them or not, prove that I am a writer. I have gone some place unexplored and have brought something new to light. It may not survive. No museum may want it. It is, however, now part of the universe. ...
Blog of a struggling writer.