I’ve been examining the value of putting pen to paper recently.
Close to everyday, I sit down with my journal and write a few words.
I have a goal of three pages per sitting.
Sometimes I come up short. Sometimes I go long.
I don’t do it at the same time everyday.
Sometimes I write in the morning. Sometimes when I get to work. Sometimes when I’m sitting around in the evening. Sometimes late at night.
I write about what’s on my mind. I write about what I see around me. I write about what I think about. I write the most freely here because I know that no one will ever see.
I make mistakes. I spell things wrong. I use the wrong word and then I cross it out with a single line. I forget periods and commas and capital letters.
Drafts of blog posts are sometimes born here. Fodder for fictional projects. Secrets.
What started out as a blank book becomes a book of first drafts and memories.
On paper, I am forced to face my errors.
I can’t just hit backspace and make the evidence of every wrongly pressed key disappear forever.
At nearly thirty, I am only now learning the value of what they call a first draft.
On paper, I am forced to slow down.
I can’t write nearly as fast as I type. If I try, my hand cramps up and I barely can write a sentence. I notice the weight of every word.
I don’t rush to publish.
I let things sit and percolate.
I rushed for so long, but now I understand the value in taking my time.