A Notebook of Reasons

Anna searched for her Paper Mate InkJoy pen. Black ink, not blue. It was the only one that could do the job of gliding on pages effortlessly like thread meeting its fabric. She wanted the time during quarantine to be used for creative purposes, and it seemed to be as good a time than any to begin writing the book that she had shelved into those deep recesses for years and years. In typical procrastination style, she would start with rock-solid intentions, the right environment, and the right beverage. A fifteen-minute meditation to set the entire tone of prolific creativity that would surely pour from her fingertips after she reached a fraction of enlightenment. The particulars of creating the environment to write had become a hindrance. They unraveled into the excuses that prevented her from looking for the pen at all. 

There was a bit more to that convenient mental dialog of it not being the right time to begin. With writing, came vulnerability and the fear of what would come out once she turned on the faucet. It had been a form of therapy since childhood. The callous formed from incorrectly holding pens and pencils was now a slight bump of what it had been. The onset of adolescents and the emotional ups and downs that came with it produced notebooks filled to the brim with stories and poems that seemed never to cease. What would come out if she started up now? Everything? Blank pages?

Some of the notebooks were intact, with various pages hanging on for life, hugging the coiled rings. Quotes, written on the back that encouraged perseverance. Song lyrics recalling the exact mood of a particular entry. They were capsules of a time when writing for the sake of writing was all that mattered. They evoked emotions thought to have been hidden well into the crevices of the brain and soul, never to speak of again. Each book knew pain the next did not—some words blurred by tears that she vividly remembered spilling as she wrote. 

The darkness that bouts of depression created led her into a place where the words she would write were the ones that helped her to speak. Not everyone would listen, and not everyone chose to hear. In these moments of silence, she let it all out onto the pages. Scraps of paper, receipts, and used envelopes would often suffice for what was needed to be released. When she would revisit these words, it would come as a shock that the sentences flowed together into something so eloquently expressed that she had to question if it was from an outside source.

In Anna’s mind, she wasn’t a writer. At least not technically. She didn’t have a degree or the education that could back up her desire to be one. She never shared her musings with others save her assignments during school, in which she always excelled. A degree in her best form of expression was the only way to have the right to such a title, until then, she was a poser with a hobby.

After years of non-use, her pencil dulled, the ink dried, and the outlet that had been her life raft for many years floated away. She would keep up with a book of poems, writing into it when deeply stirred. 

She began to compare her desire to write again to the times where she felt the lowest. For many years, she found she had nothing to say. It was as if the writing had done its job, and the outlet was no longer needed. Deep down, she knew this wasn’t true; deeper still, she knew she was the one standing in her way. Some stories were asking to be written. They suspended above in the air, and she let them go. The nudge to go for it collided with excuses that circled back to the same storyline, and slowly it was revealed that she was full of them. The vulnerability in that lightbulb going off was enough to set the tone to continue. 

The feeling of being struck by a stream of words when one is ready is like none other. While awaiting the convergence of inspiration and timing, Anna would scroll through articles on how to be a better writer and how to throw procrastination to the curb. At times she would set the scene as if preparing for a romantic date with a new crush. It all had to be just so, and from there, the world of words would become her oyster. It would be put off until she went to the mountains where peace would surely usher in the flow of words she desperately sought. Except it didn’t work that way, and more times than not, the noise of construction would begin either in the house next door or in her mind. It was a bit of a sick joke.

As the layers of excuses peeled away, the reality sunk in and brought her back to those notebooks written in 1996. The single-mindedness of a teenager created the sounding board for endless ideas. The delusion that she was the only one experiencing the feelings that rolled through her, lead to the stacks of notebooks that lay at her feet all these years later. The complete abandon of writing for the sake of writing without judgment or correction produced thousands of words, and while she found many cringe-worthy now, during those moments, they were what needed to be written down. 

She questioned where that fire was. Was it buried and not worth revisiting? Was the joy of storytelling and expression eluding her merely because of a list of reasons why she couldn't? She was sure she could find the answer to that in one of the many self-help books she owned. One negative inkling turning into a broad statement that one shouldn’t do what they were meant to all along. Distractions put in front to quell the fear of beginning that first sentence. 

So there she sat, having found the perfect pen to go with her brand new notebook. She turned into an instant editor with computers, and the connection of pen to paper allowed for a stream of consciousness that technology couldn’t. The blank page stirred excitement as it always had. Similar to an artist with a canvas, the limitless medium can present endless directions. That was the joy of writing; it doesn’t matter what comes out, as long as it finds a home. She never asked herself at fifteen the meaning of it all; she allowed it to happen, and that was enough.