Spiral Bound

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. How could I fill such a book with the mad meanderings of my mind?

I write in cheap ruled exercise books. The ones you find on sale, sun faded, cover crinkled, one-dollar specials. Supermarket note pads, spiralled jotters and oddly adhered reject offerings. These are my journals of choice. Filled, front and back, stacked in cabinets and closets these books of pulped pine and bleached birch are the receptacles for my creative voice.

I feel safe to scribble, to scratch out, tear out and rant out. Safe to destroy, dismantle and dislodge my mother tongue. Safe to write, re-write and re-write again.

Thin paper leaches ink, with spotted, dotted follow pages, indented pressure points several pages deep, tea stained, potato chip greased safety blankets. I cannot write a wrong word here.

The decorated, hand chosen, heartfelt gifts remain blank in their beauty. Shelved for now, absent of art and lacking my particular language of love. For when will I ever be good enough to grace their perfect pages with prose worthy of any of them?

Now I see them there, I realise. I am not waiting for the right words, the perfect penmanship or the divine time. I am afraid. I might ruin them. I might ruin everything. I am spiral bound.

Putting myself out there, on paper…good paper…is permanent and I’m simply afraid. Terrified to make a mistake, an un-erase-able mistake. To be flawed. To be less than perfect. To be me.