I bought myself two nice, new, expensive (for me at least) notebooks. Amazon calls them journals. I think notebooks are probably cheaper and journal sounds so la-dee-dah. This is them. Or is it they? Anyway, here are my notebooks/journals. See?
And a brand new, never been bitten Bic pen. Ahhhhhh………..
The reason being, I got an idea in my head that journaling would be good for my soul, or something like that. At the very least, I could write down the randomness that invades my brain some nights that keep me from sleeping. I like the idea of no one knowing what I’m writing, (mwah-ah-ah-hah) not that I have such fabulous secrets to keep to myself. I must write myself a note to make a list of promising secrets that I could write about.
But really, am I the only person in the world that loves, I mean really LOVES a brand new notebook and a brand new pen, to the point that it’s hard to make myself begin writing in it? I look at it, all nice and new and shiny (the edges of both notebooks/journals are shiny gold, maybe that’s what makes them journals! ) and the fabulous possibilities of what I could write, and how extraordinarily neatly I could write with that new, unbitten Bic pen, paralyzes me.
I’ve walked past them for three days now — just giving them a passing glance, don’t want them to think they’ve got the upper hand. But even now, I can hear them taunting me from my craft room.
But in spite of all my grand ideas and literary dreams, I’ll probably use them for grocery lists and keeping track of stitches when I’m knitting, or just notes to remind myself of something I’ll probably forget anyway. Or some such like.
But, oh the possibilities………