Last week I got the strange urge to organize my writing room. This happens every few years.
When I was moving a pile of books from one place to another I found the beautiful leather-covered journals that my sister had given me. She had wanted me to write my life stories in them.
When I learned that they were not teaching cursive writing anymore I thought writing in the journals would be a waste of time since future generations would not be able to read them.
Holding those books and looking at all those blank pages made me realize that writing in a journal is something you do for yourself not future generations.
I decided to write my stories in them even if it was just to give myself the joy of remembering them.
I got myself settled in my chair and opened a book. The sight of that blank page made my mind go blank. This happens to me a lot.
When it happens I usually get a bunch of random meaningless thoughts rolling through my mind.
Here are some of the thoughts that rolled through my mind that day.
I have to remember to tell my grandchildren to tell their children and grandchildren to learn how to read and write cursive writing because soon that will be a specialty skill needed in historical research.
I sure hope they vote to keep Daylight Savings Time so my Saskatchewan friends will stop feeling sorry for me every winter.
Some people can do whatever they want and when they get caught doing something wrong all they have to do is say “I’m sorry, I made a mistake.” and all is forgiven. It must be nice to be that special. Most people have to pay the consequences for their ‘mistakes.’
Why did they have to go and coat chicken breasts with a soy protein? It is already a high-protein food so why spoil the taste? I wish scientists would leave my food alone.
Who invented knitting? What kind of genius had the brains and patience to design a pattern? I barely have the patience to follow a pattern.
Why do some cats just sit in the yard and torture the barking dog behind the window? Maybe they were bullies in a past life.
After those and a few more random thoughts went through my mind I looked at that blank page again. I picked up my pen and wrote,’ My sister gave me this book…”
Writing can be very much like life, for every journey you take you must take that first step; for every story you write you must write that first word.
by Lois Perepelitz
