Many of my friends give me nice journals for presents. Some of them are so beautiful–hardback with fine, thick archival grade paper, the kind that makes a pleasant riffling sound when you turn the pages, the kind that should not sit blank on a shelf for months or years. Unfortunately, like lots of writers I know, I’m picky, you could even say ritualistic, about my composing gear and environment. That could be a whole blog post by itself.
But I’m not much of a hardcover journal composer. Not even the classic moleskin notebook writer. I’m not much of a diarist either. If I do use a notebook, it will likely be lined, cardboard cover, maybe spiral bound.
So looking over my small collection of pristine journals one day, I thought it a shame they were unused. Then I thought of a dear friend, an impovershed friend, brilliant, a struggling writer, someone who really is a diarist. She has probably filled more than 20 cover-to-cover notebooks. Probably more. I thought, “regift.” So I did.
A few weeks later she called me.
“That journal you gave me isn’t blank,” she said, though quick to point out how much she liked it. I was quick to feel embarrassed–for giving a defective present. What had I jotted down, some to-do list a few pages inside that I’d missed? She told me what I’d written was on a page somewhere in the middle.
“It says, ‘Novel Idea.’ ” It was dated 2006. I asked her to read it to me. It was just a sketchy idea, but it was clearly mine, based on a character name I’ve used elsewhere.
“I have no memory of writing this,” I said. Now, after a month, I do seem to vaguely remember the idea.
She said, “There’s five first lines under it. Four are crossed out.”
“Read them to me, please.” They were terrible. Even the first one not crossed out. Some just moved words around. Others just substituted a couple of words.
Days later, I was driving down the highway to the university, and I saw it in my head. Most of the novel based on that idea. The ending was vague–the denouement fading into some foggy place. The next day I got the ending.
I’ve written the first chapter. It has possibilities.
But I think this story is better. I could never have made it up. We writers, we always give pieces of ourselves away to the world. Years later, as long as we’re still around, the pieces find their way home and work on us in strange ways. I don’t think I’ll ever be much of a diarist. But maybe I’ll make a habit of writing ideas on scraps of paper, book jackets, and blank notebooks, with my name and e-mail on them and give them away. I’ll trust the universe. When the time is right, they’ll return to me.
It seems with the update to WordPress 3.0, the theme I’ve been tweaking carefully the last couple of years has expired. So I’ve thrown this one in for now. I hope you like it.
