Notebooks and nervousness

30 January 2006 at 21:37 Leave a comment

I always carry a blank notebook to scribble in.

It started as an accident – my parents had gotten me a blank book for my birthday right before I spent a month in France (much to their chagrin – um, going to France, not having the notebook with me) so I had it with me, and on the return flight I couldn’t sleep, so…

I filled in the whole thing. It was glorious.

As I was writing feverishly a stewardess kept slowing down as she passed me, sort of shaking her head.

And still they came, poems, ideas for poems, ideas. Lovely pearls. I still draw from it occasionally.

Twice the stewardess stopped and told me to put it away and go to sleep. It was clear that she thought I was under the influence of some kind of jet-lag avoidance fad.

“It’s better for jet lag if you sleep.”

“Shhhh!” I didn’t say, “I’m creating!”

And so since then I have always kept a little book with me for thoughts and poems and Overheards. And it still seems to make people uneasy.

They try to peak at it, or look at me nervously, clearly worried, “What’s she writing? Why is she writing?”

I suppose they think I’m writing about them.

I probably am.

Yeah, and good luck reading it with my handwriting.

My sister reading something I’d written, “Why are your f‘s backwards?”

Shrug.

They’re not always.

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Entry filed under: writing.

Overheard IV Overheard V

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T. Anderson Painter

I am a misanthrope. No one ever believes me, but this seems to prove my point.

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