If you steal from many sources, it is called research

I have been reading other blogs, enjoying the writing, and stealing ideas. Well, maybe that's too harsh. I hope so. I am reading about things that are interesting and that I'd like to explore on my own? OK?

Annie at writers, witches and words (http://anniekelleher.blogspot.com/) wrote about journaling, and not being a journal writer. I thought that was interesting, and as always, amusing. For some perverse reason, I ended up buying a new journal that day.

I like to think of myself as a journal writer. I think I'm more of a blank book collector. I love the feel of a new blank book or even a plain old spiral notebook. Clean, clear, and ready for all of the ideas, hopes, angst and to do lists I can pour into it. I almost always buy a new pen when I buy a new journal. It just works that way for me. Some people match purse and shoes, I match pen and journal.

Most of my early journals begin: "This time I really am going to lose 10 lbs." My later journals begin: "My old journals began, 'this time I really am going to lose 10 lbs,' but this will begin with..." whatever.

I tried theme journals.

Journals of story ideas and poems.

A pregnancy journal. Unfortunately, that one ended prematurely along with the pregnancy. I decided not to do that again.

I found a journal I'd written when I was 20 and miserable. It was a bound book with a print of a lovely woman on the front which had been given to me by a very good friend. The book cover was red. For once, I wasn't trying to lose weight. I had copied poems I'd written earlier. They are not terrible at all. I had written about how desperately miserable I was, and how I felt that even when I was happy it was just a short phase. I ought to show that to my counselor, huh? Anyway, I gave it to my son, who at 19 or 20 seemed to have similar thoughts. I don't know if he read it, and if he did, whether it reached him. I don't know what helps us get through those times. I didn't have Prozac and the beer didn't really help that much. He seems better now, but if he's like me, the thoughts are there still, eating at his faith in himself and his life.

But that's a different subject, and not necessarily my story to tell.

The new book I bought is also red. Red faux suede --- that's what the label said. I bought ultra-fine Flair pens to go with it. I wrote for two pages about journals. This is when I remembered a distinct advantage of blogging over journal writing. My hands cramped and my handwriting started to look like the scribblings of an old drunk. Genteel and yet erratic. Sums up my life, really.

Most of my journals are four or five pages of writing and a whole lot of blank pages. Some books cover many years, with huge gaps in between. They are usually mundane, trite, and frankly boring.

But I keep writing. I picture my grandchildren reading the books and giggling. I wish I had journals written by my grandmothers. My notebooks will probably by tossed with the things that you can't even sell at a yard sale, but I'll still keep writing them and hoping there will be something for someone in there.

It's in my nature.

A Writer's Notebook

Tomorrow I am taking my son to choose his writer's notebook. It was on the list of school supplies with a note that it should not be purchased until after school started.

I was lucky enough to be in the classroom during one of the discussions of what a writer's notebook is. The class read the book A Writer's Notebook by Ralph Fletcher and discussed what they wanted from a writer's notebook and how they could use it. As a class, they developed a list and finally sent home word that it was time to find the perfect writer's notebook.

This is tremendously exciting for me. I have already scoped out notebooks in Barnes & Noble, The Happy Bookseller, Staples & Target. There is one in Barnes & Noble that I think he might like --- it is yellow with stylized red dragons. If he doesn't like it, we'll keep looking. This is a major undertaking, like a first bra or a wedding dress, neither one of which I will never have to purchase for my sons (I don't suppose.)

I have several notebooks myself, and also buy new ones just because. There is one huge faux leather volume that had lots of potential, but got set aside in the bustle of moving to a new house. I had envisioned a journal supplemented with stories, photos, recipes, drawings, pressed flowers and other souvenirs. I can see it bulging with feathers and clippings between beautifully written vignettes and memories. A memory journal to pass to my children.

Most of my journals are more mundane. They are spiral notebooks purchased at the grocery store. They start: "I now weigh ____ lbs. This time I REALLY AM GOING TO LOSE WEIGHT." The earlier and later ones go on, I really can't put up with my mother one more minute, which of course, was not true. The very early ones had a list of everyone, real and imagined, I was in love with. Some have poems, some have bits of stories I planned to write. Some include stories I did write. But few lasted more than a few pages before they were put aside and forgotten.

Maybe I'll pull out my faux leather memory book and start my own "writer's notebook" as Mark begins his. Maybe I'll write things I want to think about later. Things I will end up writing about here or in a more private e-mail. Things that may grow feathers and fly away.

Won't that be fun? Mother and son writing notebooks. I am sooo excited!

And Here We Are

A blog. Like a new journal. Full of possibilities. Full of hope. Full of potential... pitfalls.

Am I going to use this to express great thoughts, or at least amusing thoughts? Am I going to write this opening entry and forget about it for a few months? Am I going to begin great conversations about important (or at least amusing) things? Am I going to use this as one more excuse to avoid the long long long to do list?

What am I going to do with this blog? I'll probably whine. I don't do that IRL and so I vent on paper, or keyboard, or whatever. When I say I don't whine in real life, I mean, I have a very low tolerance for whining in others and I hold myself to those standards as well. There is something about the pitch of a whine. Maybe I'm part bat and it sets off a radar that makes me want to hone in on the whiner and bite him or her.

My children don't whine. They do other things that I probably shouldn't mention, but they do NOT whine. It was one of the few parenting skills I was able to master consistently, probably because of my bat-like intolerance for the noise. When they'd whine at me, I'd look at them with a pained, sympathetic grimace and say, "You seem really upset, but I can't understand a word you are saying." After awhile I just had to give them a confused smile and point at my ear.

A good friend of mine looked at a whining high school freshman and said, "Put a little bass in your voice, son." The young man immediately stood up straighter and repeated his request in a Barry White voice. My friend still said no, but he didn't bite him.

Part of teaching Not Whining is teaching children that "please" is not literally a magic word. Conversation:
Child: May I have a cookie?
Me: No.
Child: Please.
Me: I like your manners. No.
Child: PLEEEEAAASSSEEEEE!
Me:
I'd like to say it ends there, but children sometimes think that please is a magic word as long as you say it with just the right inflection (thanks a lot Harry Potter) and so they try it over and over again until they get it right or I bite them.

And so, at the risk of being bitten, I may whine in this blog. But I hope I do it in an interesting, important (at least amusing) way. Or not. Where is my To Do list?