This is my life’s work, filling notebooks with words. Other people’s notebooks, even. This one belonged to Bob, but since he hadn’t used it since 2007, I asked him if I could have it and he said, “Of course.”
Blah, blah blah, practicing cursive. Sometimes cursing. Musing, venting, observing, and occasionally writing stories. Perfecting comma placement.
On a good day, I take my coffee to the back porch rocking chair and let the words flow, distracting myself from the day ahead, the number on the bathroom scale, the unbearable headlines, and my stagnant dumbells.
This is my “Me” time, filling pages with ink I buy off Amazon. It’s a good way, a friend reads somewhere, to stave off dementia. Something about the hand-eye-brain connection that differs from fingers on a keyboard.
On a not so good day, I don’t have or take the time to sit on the back porch with paper and pen. When this notebook is full I’ll add it to the stack of already-full notebooks, building my tower of words one inch at a time.
Discover more from Plastic Farm Animals
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
