I just said good bye to a former student (who is now a friend) and her fiance after they had dinner with us. She loves to write and is planning to become a teacher, primarily because of her experience as a student in Writing Workshop (which could be a post all on it’s own!).
Tonight we started talking about our writer’s notebooks. She said, “I just love my writer’s notebooks — all of them.”
I immediately replied, “I do too!” And we started talking about our favorite notebooks and how we keep track of entries and how we sometimes forget which notebook a particular entry lives in.
Reflecting on our conversation I realize that I sometimes forget how special my writer’s notebook really is. So often it is just a part of what I do and I forget that it is a part of me, of my life. Looking at my collection of notebooks — an eclectic mix of sizes and shapes and colors — I feel warm inside, realizing that my living is documented.
Those things I’ve felt and thought and imagined have been planted and can take root and grow into something — a poem or letter or memoir or scrapbook page. It may be years after I recorded them, but that is part of the beauty. I can see life from the perspective of when I recorded it plus from the present. The words inside these notebooks help me define who I am and make sense of the world around me.
Yes, indeed, I heart my writer’s notebooks because they make me a better person and life so much more powerful.
Unhurried. Finding the magic in the middle of living. Capturing a life of ridiculous grace + raw stories.