I keep a small notebook with a pen on my wrist at all times. The bungee cord that keeps it closed is a good device to keep it wrapped around my hand. Eat, breathe, sleep, think, always write. That's the story of my life. There isn't a day that goes by that my fingers aren't clacking away, my skin isn't stained with ink, or that there isn't some hibbity-gibbity thought that I need to get down on paper. If one were to open my little blue journal, they will find my scrawling all over it - and maybe it's not exactly legible. On the inside cover, written in gold, are these words:
This notebook is filled with words and sayings, thoughts and gibberish, half started stories, endings with no beginnings, middles and snippets, a plethora of spelling mistakes, whimsical dreams, tortured characters, plots with holes, hand writing that's not legible, quotes of my mind, names that do not belong to anyone, and characters with no names. There's good sense and no sense and nonsense, business that is mine, and none of yours, sanity and insanity, different color ink, highlighters, and markers, things you may understand, more often though you won't. It's pieces of a puzzle slowly coming together. It's stories and sayings, poetry and rhymes.
Everything within, all of it is mine.
I know it's not grammatically correct, but it's my journal, it doesn't have to be. The above is true enough for my blog. We'll see what I write, and what I have to say. There may be snippets of stories, book reviews, rants, raves, whining about assignments, or maybe just a vent or two. If people follow, they do, if they don't, they don't. I have something to say, but not everyone will listen. Sometimes it might make sense, but other times it won't. I don't pretend to understand my mind very well. Maybe this will help me interpret it.
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