I estimate that about 90% of the time I’m awake, my brain is writing. Something. Anything. Usually a blog post that won’t be published. If I can’t sleep at night, it’s because my brain is writing and not sleeping; describing my day, telling a funny story, scripting a conversation that I’ll never have with the mean store clerk. I wonder what other people think about; what their thoughts sound like in their heads.
I have a small, but growing, collection of notebooks. In my red, leather notebook I jot down notes from church, things people say that inspire me, and things I want to study later. In my black notebook I write my musings, things I want to remember, and recipes to try later. In my San Fransisco notebook (a notebook Matt got me when he was in San Fransisco and I was home being lonely) I write the one-sentence wisdom I hear, the words that come when I think of the long-lost days of my childhood, and way too many to-do lists. There are blue, cream, and purple notebooks filled with yet more thoughts.
Sometimes when I flip through the old pages of my notebooks, I surprise myself: Did I write that? Other times, I’m left confused: What was I thinking about when I wrote that?
“Tastes like July.” It’s a single line written on one of the pages written in November 2009. What tastes like July?
A few good one-liners:
We’ll do everything in the world to be happy, except change.
If we’re both the same, one of us is unnecessary.
When we stop learning, we abbreviate our potential.
An Ashley-original poem (I do NOT write poetry, so this is practically the only one scribbled in any of my notebooks):
knocking, knocking, knocking
wiggles and squeaks
a little thumb drumming
gives me the sneaks
Writing makes me happy.
