There is something about writing in notebooks that intrigues me. Each crisp, white page is a blank slate, a fresh start. I like the metaphor that it provides about life. Each day is a new beginning.
You can write about anything you want, the measurements of the paper in front of you being your only boundary. The bindings of a notebook are strong, like a spine. The covers, overlooked, because the beauty and the magic knowingly lie within.
Even still, there is something so effortless about the way a pen glides on these crisp, white pages, filling them up entirely. My left-handed, half print, half cursive handwriting feels smooth and continuous as I write the words that are flowing from my head. As I lift my hand, I notice ink smeared across my skin.
The greatest part of it all is not being able to take anything back, just like life. Everything you speak aloud cannot technically be retracted or unheard. There are no backspaces or Ctrl+Alt+Del functions. No amount of
strikethroughs, scribbles, or white-out can eliminate the truth that was once transcribed.
Ernest Hemingway wrote in A Moveable Feast, “I always worked until I had something done and I always stopped when I knew what was going to happen next.” When he didn’t know what to write, he would write the truest sentence that he knew and go from there. His goal was to write one story about each thing he knew about.
As a writer, I abandon pieces of my work that, in the beginning, I had tremendous ideas for. That particular final project was not meant to have an ending, or at least not yet anyway. That is the beauty of writing. Some stories are not meant to be written, and some stories are meant to be transformed into literary art. I fill up my crisp, white pages with beginnings to stories and no endings. I am constantly writing the book with no end. The everlasting book.
My greatest fear with writing isn’t that readers won’t appreciate my words, but that my thoughts will run out and I will be empty. I will have nothing left to render. I will be sitting in front of a crisp, white page and the ink in my pen will have run out, or the opposite, I will be holding an ink-filled pen and have no crisp, white pages left.
I want to write to inspire and inform. I want to tell my story and the stories of others. I want to be serious and I want to be creative. I want to always be writing on crisp, white pages because notebooks intrigue me. They do so in the way that each page is fresh and waiting for my mark.