When it clicks

I always wanted to keep a journal, ever since I was around 8- or 9-years-old. The potential for my autobiography has gone unwritten in mostly-empty blank books of every sort. There's only been one journal I faithfully kept, from around my third year in university through my first year of grad school. It was a hard-bound, unruled, black sketchbook, and I filled it. I left it in the stacks of  the University of Delaware library, once, and thought it was lost forever. I mourned, truly. When I got a call several weeks later from an officer with University security who had spent those weeks reading it and piecing together which student it must belong to, I was only mortified for a heartbeat. Then I was out the door to retrieve it.

That journal proves I can be a faithful diarist, but I haven't been since I got it back. Last weekend Cecily gave me a black, unruled, wire-bound sketch book, and in her subtle way gave me a little hell for insisting I'm not a designer, I'm just a writer and editor and I like it that way.

In the week I've had it I've been compelled to fill it. Not so much with words this time, but with shapes and colours and numbers and plans. I keep a journal next to my bed like I have since I was a kid, but I know it's the sketchbook that is going to hold everything. I can feel it. It's like coming home.

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