It doesn't seem like a big deal, but it is. Every notebook I've written in has either been abandoned or thrown away. I've never written from the first page to the last. But I'm finishing a notebook this week, it's happening, and I'm not throwing it away. The urge to keep things hidden is still strong. I have often been unable to stand the vulnerability of sharing what I write. It's a habit and a way of thinking that I'm trying very hard to shake.
I've been writing in this particular notebook since last December. I bought it in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport when I was stranded after Christmas. It's not a big notebook, so really, it should have been finished months ago. But I have a hard time keeping my writing all in one place. I have three different notebooks right now, all in different stages of being written in. I also write on scraps of paper and hide the scraps in books I'm reading, in my purse, in my pockets. I write into Gmail drafts. I write into Word documents. I write here.
It used to drive me crazy that I couldn't just write in one place, back when I thought the only purpose of writing was producing. But it's just as much the process as the product, and I've come to terms with the fact that I write randomly. It's ok -- it's my process. And there's some magic in discovering a random note on scrap of paper, hidden in a coat pocket months ago, that you can't even remember writing down.
I haven't been terribly productive the last few days. I tell myself that I'm letting some things rest and letting myself think. I guess I am, but let's get real: I am just that good at distracting myself from the work I know I want to do. As a compromise, I made a deal with myself. Finish the notebook. There are 7 pages left. So finish it.
Pick up the pen.
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This is what today feels like.
Check out these paintings by Philipp Haager.
