Yesterday I had a surge of inspiration and wrote quite a bit. I can't explain why it is such a different feeling and process to write something down by hand, rather than by typing it into a computer screen. Don't get me wrong, I love to type and blog, and do all of the grand things that come from a computer (hence my digital scrapbooking hobby), but I really love to sit down with a fine tip pen, the finer the better, and write in my little black notebook.
I've always love notebooks. There is a certain anticipation looking at the blank pages of a fresh notebook, not knowing exacatly what can come of those pages. While in school, it was inevitably a slew of notes, some interesting and some not, from classes that ranged from Biology to Andulician literature.
My love of writing and notebooks does not mean in any way that I am a good journal keeper. In fact, I stink. I don't write the events of my life, or take time to journal about the political events of the day. Will my children look back and feel some sort of loss that I didn't leave them neatly, chronological diaries of my life? Will they enjoy the random ramblings of notebooks that have empty pages, thoughts of fiction, and lists of various types?
I recently asked for the journals of two of my great-grandmothers. One, I named my daughter after, the other, I feel very close to. They were both born before the automobile, and died during the jet and space age. I wonder what they thought as they saw the world rapidly changing around them and what their lives were like on a daily basis. Did they ramble as I do, or were they neatly organized and structured in their records. I don't know, but suppose either way, I will enjoy the fact that something from their own hand was recorded.
Wether or not it is a book, a story, or just my random notebooks, I hope that I have something to leave behind when I go. I hope that my children, grandchildren and other posterity will enjoy my randomness because that is who I am. I can't be structured and record my daily activities. Hopefully there is someone out there that is. I would hate for my children to not know the price of milk on February 16, 2009, twenty years from now. But it won't be me that records it.