Sometimes I simply prefer to write on paper. There is something reassuring about the scratch of pencil or the glide of a pen across velum.
The letters and words you form seem more personal. This is often how I start with any writing that I do and the most personal musings will stay that way, nestling between the pages of journals, with no wish or need to be transcribed elsewhere: kept safe under my bed in my box of memories for as long as the journals live.
Words here are raw. They are honest and from the heart, laid bare in notebooks of every size and shape – in every colour ink colour I have ever chosen and type of scrawl I have ever practiced.
Some pages are streams of words growing into sentences and paragraphs. Other pages are broken down into shorter chunks, thoughts, ramblings, quotes and mantras.
Sometimes pages are scattered with pictures and memories saved and taped between pages. There are underlinings, highlighting, circling and crossings out.
One thing that is guaranteed to be locked between the covers of paper and leather and cloth . . . are words: words that I have strung together to create a shape of sorts – words that have flowed from mind to finger tip to page.
. . . a steam of consciousness made visible in words.