I am using up an average of one and a half composition notebooks per week. When I sit in class and listen in on the discussions, my right hand is constantly taking notes – practically flying over the pages. When I have a thought that seems important and doesn’t align with the direction the conversation should be going, I write it down. For later.
If you asked me, I probably couldn’t even tell you what I’d just written down, because I am carefully listening. When I flip back through the notes that I took a couple of days ago, I find interesting thoughts that I have no recollection of thinking. It’s like reading something that someone else wrote, but I recognize my voice.
There is a rough, round bump on the first knuckle of the third finger of my right hand, because that’s where the pen rests most of the time. It’s a writer’s callus. It gets red and raw when I hold on too tightly, but it doesn’t hurt.
I’m a little bit proud of that. It’s like… the work that I love to do most in the world left a mark on me. A real mark, something I can touch.
When I need to reach for the confidence of knowing that even if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, in this moment, I will somehow be able to figure it out…
the reminder is right at the tips of my fingers.
This is so much fun.
I hope it’s a good night.
*edited this because I cannot spell words