Last Sunday, my wife and I had the
pleasure to travel from Hartford to the lovely Southeastern
Connecticut shore to spend a day with an old college friend and his
family. We shared a wonderful dinner, filled with hours of
storytelling and conversation, and returned to the hotel before
midnight only to realize our rental car had been compromised. My two
iPads, truck keys, Jodie's laptop, and other things were gone. My
planned trip to Vermont took a detour as I drove back to the New
London area to file a police report and begin the first step in
getting my digital life back in order.
There was one item which, now gone, has
struck me as delivering the greatest blow. That is my journal.
Months of writing has vanished. The
occasionally profound, at times mundane but altogether important,
musings of an inveterate writer. The waiting for the police report
and the completed filing of insurance paperwork is drawing every
ounce of patience, but the missing writing is my greatest struggle.
When I was six, my parents took Rob and
I on our annual pilgrimage east and made a stop in Charlottesville,
where I made my first visit to Monticello. I was so inspired by my
visit with Thomas Jefferson's home that I wrote my first journal of
sorts. It was a simple little homemade folio that Mom put together
for me. I remember writing things such as “Thomas Jefferson was a
good man. I like him.” and “Jesus was born in a manger. He was a
babe.” The undulating handwriting clearly showed the mark of a kid
who was not ready for unlined pages. I am sure my mother still has
that first tome somewhere in her collection of my childhood memories.
It was my first foray into the life of a writer.
For the last twenty years, I have
faithfully kept a journal, detailing my daily thoughts and
reflections on teaching and life. I am very particular about the type
of notebook I keep. Earlier volumes tend to be a larger 8 ½ by 11
inch bound journal, covered in various stickers from my travels. Most
of my notebooks are book-sized, black, hardcover notebooks with acid
free pages. I prefer unlined pages. For many years, I began a new
journal with an inscription and a continuation of page numbers from
the previous volume. The new edition was a continuation of thoughts
past.
Getting to the final pages of a filled
notebook was an occasion. The cover was often scuffed, faded, and
ready for the shelf. The book felt
heavier, for I know a great deal of ink had been spilled (some
literal and others figurative) over those pages. Those pages had
travelled with me everywhere – on airplanes, in coffee shops, in
classrooms and libraries. As the last page was completed, I capped my
pen and thumbed through the completed tome, re-reading entries I had
not revisited in many months. Examining the ink (never pencil) I
could tell what pen was used. Was it a handy ballpoint or one of my
several fountain pens? Each page told a story within a story. The shape of my handwriting was an indication of where I was. I can tell if I was writing on a table or desk, curled up in a chair, or even nestled up against a tree. There
was a great sense of finality, and a feeling of pride that I had
continued a wonderful habit over many years.
As a
school librarian, I always tell people that I am the furthest thing
from the Type A librarian. Life is too short to worry about shelving
books. I bristle when people say the library is supposed to be a
silent place. A library is a gathering place.
I am
picky, however, about what I write in. People have given me bound
journals because they know I am a writer, and they remain unused or
given away. My journal must have a certain feel, be unruled, and
well-built to take years of punishment. My notebook should not be
“cute.” It needs to be simple, well-bound, and black. Give me my
Moleskine and nothing else.
Laura
Ingalls Wilder wrote the Little House books in pencil on Big Chief
tablets. Some writers can write on any scrap of paper and piece it
all together. On the rare occasion when I do not have my notebook and
wish to write, I have tried to write down thoughts on paper and copy
them to my notebook later. This practice never works for me. I have
to have my notebook close at hand to jot down thoughts. There is a
fine motor connection between the mind and hands that can not be
duplicated on a computer or tablet screen.
During
my teaching career, I have noticed that many students get turned off
to writing because it is inorganic and forced upon them. Writing from
personal experience is often pushed aside to writing for specificity,
particularly as short responses to teacher-directed prompts. Kids
will ask if they have written enough, and I tell them to let go and
just write. I am of the opinion that writing is like carving art from
a block of stone, rather than building brick by brick. Writing is a
process, and for me, it is a process of shaping a raw mass into a
polished piece.
How
does one become a better writer? Easy. Write a lot. Read others'
writing. Write some more. Getting children to see this process is
difficult, but nurturing that creative fire will yield lifetime
results.
When
children tell me they “hate writing” I tell them they don't hate writing, they hate the fact they have not acquired the tools of
writing. A good writer has multiple tools in their toolbox: rich
vocabulary, strong verbs, exposition, and dialogue. Once those tools
are developed, writing will take you anywhere. My writer's notebook
is a continual attempt at refining those tools.
Enough
of this blog post. I have a notebook to break in.
