Nothing marks a fresh start quite like a new notebook. Clean lines, a stiff spine, and endless possibilities are tucked away in unmarked paper waiting to meet its pen.
It’s no secret to you, but I’ve been struggling to tighten up my writing habit. To sit down every day and scratch my pen against the eager pages.
My grandfather used to write in a journal every day, and some of those pages recently landed in my lap. I was young when he died and know him mostly through stories my Dad and my Gram Sara tell. Each time I turn a page, I can feel myself getting to know him better, even though he left us over 20 years ago. Some days are boring– recounting the weather and what he ate for lunch. But others describe his grief when his niece died in a car accident and when they lost the family dog, Meg. I feel tethered to him through turkey sandwiches and trips to the bank. Through family dinners and long walks. Through stories about my dad and uncle. Through grief and uncertainty and bouts of unbridled happiness.
And that’s just it, isn’t it? We are connected by the profoundly ordinary.
Most of us don’t live flashy lives. Our days are strung together by fleeting moments of love and pain and mailing the water bill.
I have been making this much more difficult than it needs to be. I don’t need to dream up a new story to tell. Perhaps our own stories are interesting enough.