I have a collection of journals. Writing Journals. I do not collect journals; however, journals seem to collect me. It’s true I do write and yes, in journals, however on closer inspection, I own a great many empty journals. Too many. The empty journals are not lying in wait, I did not purchase them knowing that in due course, I would fill their pages with beautiful prose, witty satirical observations, or heartfelt outpourings of emotion. In fact, I did not purchase them at all. The empty journals were gifts. Gifts for a writer. Carefully selected, each one. Some leather, silk and fabric bound. Some hand made with flower pressed paper pages. Recycled, reclaimed, re-purposed. From distant shores, India, England, Thailand. Leaves of possibility, tactile and tempting. I have journals with pages illustrated with moons and mermaids, clouds and clowns, pages tied with ribbons and some with jute. All empty, too beautiful to touch, to fill. When I open their pages…words fail me...
Words and pictures.