Life has taken over, maybe work. Sometimes I feel my notebooks have become the repository of all the things I see, the way I remark on someone with a fly-away hairstyle, try to think how that mannish-looking woman, short hair, bra-less, in a loose t-shirt and cargo could become a character, or how a run-down palatial hotel I visited could be the setting for my ghost story.
Life has become about writing and work, and most of the writing gets done in the umpteen notebooks I keep buying, unlined, crisp. I even found a sketchbook with thick white paper, and when my pen runs on it I feel alive, so in there in my head, connected. Someone asked me, why do you even need such paper? Try writing on it, I replied, go ahead, just try it.
I wish I could write my posts on my paper notebook, and they would appear on my blog, flying out of the heavy white pages, and settling on the screen, like flies settling down in neat rows. Sigh.