One thing I used to do was keep a really big agenda that had room for me to jot down thoughts, story ideas, and observations throughout the day in addition to my appts and shit to do. I guess one year, maybe two years ago, I decided I wanted to carry something that could fit in a purse, and the only kind of writer’s notebook I’d ever kept was abandoned.
Page After Page, like pretty much every writing advice book I’ve read, now says I should keep a writer’s notebook. For the past few days I’ve been staying with my bf’s family in upstate New York and I’ve had a lot of thoughts that seem like they should go in a writer’s notebook. Like how the towns are filled with quaint, falling-apart buildings, and the trees are bare, and no one seems to be wearing a scarf even though it’s 6 degrees Fahrenheit outside. I wonder what it’s like to live here, where most of the business comes from tourism. To have your only breakfast options be DJ’s Rustic Tavern, the Blue Moon Café, or the Stewart’s gas station. To shop at thrift stores because you have to, to drink beer in canoes out on the lake and go skiing in your backyard. To know who’s good to work for, who’s dating who, and who’s being shunned for being rude to a local.
I wonder if there’s a young girl living in the brown clapboard house in the middle of the white woods who wishes she didn’t have to drive an hour to go shopping for pants. If she feels trapped and starved for entertainment. Or if she’s more than happy at home with her parents and younger siblings, smoking cigarettes with her best friend on long, cold walks.
Anyways. Yes, I’ve been waxing a little poetic in my own head and wishing I had a notebook on me at various moments to write down these mildly interesting thoughts before I forgot them. One such thought, which I can’t remember now, of course, occurred to me this morning as I was lying in bed. I do remember thinking I should write that down. And then thinking, But then I’d have to move. And then, Am I really even the writing type? And imagining being out at a party and pausing a conversation to write in my notebook, or pulling over while driving, or waking up from a dead sleep. Because I’m pretty invested in what’s happening here and now. It feels like a lot of work to get away to write, to be that little bit strange, to keep ducking out of the real world and leaving the real people around me to be inside my head.
On a more positive note, here’re some gorgeous pictures of a house I’d like to someday live in (all from Design*Sponge)
(but with more contrast between the rug and flooring, and maybe more Turkish-looking pillows)