It is impossible, like literally impossible, for me to walk by a stationary store and not go in and buy a new journal. Each bound book holds so much promise, so many possible ideas. It doesn’t matter how many I already have, waiting for me to fill their pages.
Because as much as that blank page is exciting to me, it’s also daunting. I feel the pressure to make the most of that space… to not waste it with simply idle, common thoughts.
But I realize that in putting that kind of pressure of perfection I miss the chance to capture the compltely satisfactory ideas.
It’s what I really love about blogging. Each entry is its own new sheet. Filled with same promise but less of the permanence. Sure I still have the fear that what I write may be scorned or ridiculed or worst of all, dismissed as inconsequential and poorly expressed. But ever since I started writing for myself first, even that has somewhat subsided.
So that each day I sit down to write an entry I am filled with an excitement, a joy, an eagerness to start capturing thoughts.
But nothing will ever replace those pristine white pages… the feeling of cracking a new journal open, laying it flat again the table and hearing the spine separate and settle in. Of seeing ink flow against the bright parchment, the words and sentences taking shape in uneven, erratic lines. Of pouring all of your thoughts into the safety of the pages between those covers. And closing the journal up and putting it in a safe place.
There is nothing that can replace that ritual.
Which is why, if you see me walking past a stationary store, you can bet I’ll be taking a good peek inside.