I started writing in spiral notebooks the summer after college graduation. I had a lonely, miserable job in the middle of nowhere. That summer changed the trajectory of my whole professional life. The thing that I'd wanted to do for years became the last thing I could see myself doing. My mom sent me writing books and encouraged me to journal, and journal I did. I filled several notebooks that summer, discovering that I preferred wide-ruled ones because when I got into the act of writing my print got bigger and the college-ruled notebooks made me feel cramped and limited. I also realized that blue ink was my color of choice. Black ink has a tendency to make me feel darker and depressed just by its mere presence.
As much writing as I've done in my spiral notebooks over the years, it's never been about the process of creating. I'm not jotting down story ideas or first drafts of poems. I'm rarely describing scenes around me or even doing any people watching. Instead I barf my anger, my pain, my jealousy, my rage onto the page. I almost always only journal when I'm unhappy. If an outsider were to read my notebooks they would probably reach the conclusion that I am either homicidal or suicidal. Sometimes I think it does me good to get it all out. Other times I feel like it might be making things worse by giving me an unlimited space to dwell, dwell, dwell.
So if you're wondering where I am these days and why I'm not blogging much, it's because I'm filling the blank pages of another spiral notebook. It's better that I go back there right now. This venue just does not provide the same outlet for me.