I have a chest of drawers full of notebooks. They’re all blank. There are some really nice Moleskine ones, and some really nice Paperchase ones, and they’re all so nice that I couldn’t possibly write anything I have to say in them. It would waste the notebook. Very occasionally I’ll have a great idea, or I’ll allow myself one to ‘trash’, and I’ll write something in it. I might even write lots of somethings in it. And then I feel guilty for ruining it, and I’ll try to take the pages out carefully so that the rest of the notebook might be saved from the disaster that is my writing. But then the notebook is no longer perfect. I can’t throw it out, because I’m the one who murdered it. I need to keep it as a souvenir, so that I always remember: every time I attempt something, the consequences are usually fatal.
I say goodbye eventually. I have to wait for them to forgive me first.
You, however, made me feel like it wasn’t such a disaster after all. I don’t know what you saw in me, or what made you take me by the hand and pull me in, but you made me wonder if maybe I’ve been a little tiny bit hard on myself. You gave me some hope, is what you did. And you came here, unprompted, and made me actually believe in myself a little bit. I will always be grateful.
Now I don’t really know what to do. I feel stuck. I’m torn between pushing through it and trying to write something beautiful, and hiding away forever because I’ve been behaving like a maniac and I feel all over the place. I have no idea what you’re thinking. I can’t ask.
Reporters notebooks are fine for me to write in. I have half a dozen of them, just sitting around, waiting for me to write on them sleepily in the moonlight. I have a lot more notes than usual recently. I write down things to write about on here; I make little scribbles that might turn into something interesting one day; I take notes of things that I want to talk to you about… and then I never do.
Please keep believing in me. I want to exist.