I can’t remember the last time I jotted down something on a notebook.
I’d often bring a small notebook and a pen with me for the stories I follow and report. I also use it to write ideas that come up out of the blue, or to take note of a word I do not know, or to jot down whenever I needed to be reminded of something.
I also pushed it even further by maintaining a daily journal.
It has become part of my daily grind, a natural thing almost akin to breathing. I remember a friend noting on how she would always see me with a notebook and a pen in hand. It was as if it has become part of my identity, too.
But for some reason, I stopped. I stopped bringing a notebook and a pen with me.
Time could have been a culprit, but inadequate time as an excuse does not suffice. Even having an excuse as lame as that one should not be even tolerated.
Maybe this is one of the reasons why I find it difficult to compose my thoughts; they’re all over the place and I do not know where to start.
I have been trying to get back, but I am oftentimes balked by the thought of failing to find the right words, or rather, in the most straightforward (and shameful) sense, of failing to come up with pieces that wring hearts, or those that meet expectations. Admittedly, I have been becoming servile, which is something that should not at all befall a writer. Perhaps, I was also afraid to give my best and be honest with the craft that I love doing the most because I hate disappointing people; but most of all, I hate disappointing myself.
In the process, I did not just lose the habit of writing, of jotting down on notebooks, but I somehow lost a part of me, too. Worse, I also forgot about the reason why I’m writing.
At some point in my life, through pens and notebooks, I have inked memories and ideas along the way, hoping to keep them with me until my last breath. I have inked mistakes, disappointments so I would learn from them, so that I would have something to look back and say, “Phew, that wasn’t so bad as I thought!” I have inked the best memories so I would be reminded how it felt to be alive. Like the Pensieve in the world of Harry Potter, the notebooks were memory banks of moments I would like to recall.
Writing is my way of putting into words parts of myself so I won’t forget why I smile, why I cry, why I breathe, or why I still get back up after I fall down. I write because I want to remember, and somehow be remembered.
But I slowly drifted away and neglected the need for the fondest memories.
So, today, I begin again. The pen is on the paper. CV