Notebooks!

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From my other blog — On notebooks…

t a s t e & s e e !

It’s show and tell time!

I just realized that I have quite a lot of notebooks. Here are some that I use for journaling:

My Little Book of Blessings

I started keeping this one in early 2006 (yes, you read that right, it’s more than ten years old!) to note down each day’s blessings. Oh, the things that are written here! It’s amazing how a huge chunk of how God kept me afloat and joy-filled through some of the most difficult years of my life are chronicled in this tiny notebook. Only thing was, I’d always stop after a few weeks or months, and have just recently resumed writing on it again, so half the pages are still waiting to be filled.

My Faith Walk Journal

Now this notebook used to contain the highlights, or the briefest possible summary, of my every day. (See the very old entry above? Yup, this notebook’s been…

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Why do I write? — A question revisited

Five years ago — yes, five — I actually published on this blog a four-post series that explored the reasons I wrote. I called the posts, “The Whys and Wherefores of It.” (See Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4.) This time I enrolled in a course over at Blogging University, and Day One has me facing that question again: Why do I write?

I’ve decided to answer the question on free-write mode, and later compare the consequent post to the ones I wrote in 2011.

I write because I believe I have something to say that is worth “putting on paper,” so to speak, and possibly even worth reading by others.

I write because it’s therapeutic to me to document my thoughts, and helpful (on top of being nostalgic), cathartic, even, to be able to read and relive later the way my younger self processed and understood things and life. Recording myself through writing is in itself a way for me to thresh out and make sense of my world. By my writings, too, I am able to chronicle and track my growth as a person.

I write because I simply love putting words next to each other, I love weaving small and big pieces of me through words, and I love how with the right words I am able to create material that is of consequence to me and that may reach and affect another human being (in a positive way, I hope).

I write because I need to.

I write because I believe I actually express myself much better in writing than in speech. I am hardly articulate, am not a good conversationalist, not a quick thinker who can spew witticisms at the snap of my fingers. I can write without inhibition about how I think and feel about anything, though. In writing I can dive into the farthest recesses of my introspection and return to the surface with pearls I never even realized had been forming. Or something of the sort.

I am my truest self when I write. So I simply cannot not do it.

April Challenge: Blogging from A to Z

I decided a few weeks back to sign up for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, and have just come up with my theme. I thought I’d try something to help me practice writing characters and voices and to really stretch myself, so here’s my concept:

A reunion for St. Thomas Academy – High School Class ’96 is coming up. What happens before, during and after will be told in the voices of 26 people. Their names will begin from A to Z, and so will the one word that will describe each of them (Think, “Amazing Amy”).

Oh, this is gonna be fun!

Too bad I missed the theme reveal deadline, though. Anyway, this is happening. I’m psyched!

 

WIP = Work In Paralysis

I think it was 2009 when I began drafting scenes for a novel that has remained, to date, far from complete.

If you’ve been taking occasional peeks into this blog for the last five years, you may have chanced upon several of these scenes as well as numerous notes “scribbled” in my struggle to make sense of what I was doing and where I wanted to go with this work. For the un-initiated: The story revolves around Hannah and is told from the perspectives of the men in her life: father, stepfather, friend, colleague, etc. Being a novice, I could not keep from lifting a few seeds from the familiar, so the novel is perhaps 10 percent autobiographical.

From 2011 to maybe 2014 I used the yWriter software to put together and polish what few elements I had drafted, but the novel has been untouched for the last couple of years. A few weeks ago I found out I couldn’t open the program. I don’t know if I can still retrieve my content.

So. I think much serious reflection is in order. Will I ever finish this project? Do I even want to, at this point? For a long time now I’ve been spending most of my energy writing technical reports, flash fiction, journal entries, random notes and Facebook posts. Am I still able, and willing, to go back to this novel and see it through?

uwePOIURHJGOPIUREWHJGPOW Htp9 l,eaekrolkju <*bangs head on keyboard*>

 

i want to

I turn my head towards my office window. My curtains are partly opened, to let just the right amount of sunshine in. It’s bright outside, the sky is blue with little patches of nice, light, fluffy clouds, and the gentle breeze is causing a good rustle among the trees. The sound is inviting.

Just a couple of hours ago I drove past the community pool and saw that it had just been cleaned, the water was so clear I wanted to jump right in. The pool’s in the middle of the compound, though. The thought of having to change my clothes, walk to the pool and back to the house and rub the chlorine off my skin afterward tramples all my anticipated relaxation from the activity.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be out sprawled on a beach somewhere right now.

Enough daydreaming. Back to work.

 

The day the music died

I miss being able to write like this 😦

The Write Project

He waddled barefoot to and fro along the sidewalk, grime rubbing against his thickened soles, mixing with the accumulation of mud, dirt and gunk that had cyclically hardened, liquefied and dried between his toes over the course of alternating sunny and rainy days, dry and wet nights. His stocky, swollen frame, blackened, tattered clothes, the grease that covered his face and arms, and the thick layers of dark, rough, scabs and wounds covering his legs, were enough to cause unknowing pedestrians to stare, or to tighten their grip involuntarily on their children’s arms, or even to cross the road before they could cross paths with him.

It was hard to tell his age. With sallow, wandering eyes he often seemed in a distant place somewhere. Drawing near him one would hear a soft, constant humming, a happy, unfamiliar tune that locals had grown accustomed to and laughingly even found themselves…

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