Baby Steps

Tonight is my first Monday night. And rather than be here, or elsewhere, doing this, I worked overtime. For an extra hour and a half I stayed, alone, at my work desk writing emails and updating spreadsheets. Then I wrote up my time sheet and locked up. Walk-metro-bus ride home, but first a stop to the store to pick up pads and bread and bananas. With an extra quart of frozen yogourt, two cereal boxes and some parmesan cheese, I made my way home in a light rain. I put the groceries away, offered myself a glass of chilled Martini Rossi, cued Billy Holliday and checked my email. Now, I sit down to write. In 20 minutes Ben will be home. I have rice to make for supper (which I should start now), a present to pack and a bill to write up. So my first Monday night will be a subtle one. Short and peripheral.

But first, a bit more Martini Rossi…

Usually, I stop before even starting. I have found myself the perfect topic to fret about and muddle over: the material, or the tool, or the weapon. Like a pair of shoes, the perfect one does not seem to exist. Let’s examine the options.

First, the pen. I must admit, I’m a pen girl. Not a fountain pen girl. My appreciation does not border on the phallic fascination. Nor a Mont Blanc type, because working at Birks as a girl I quickly noticed that those were the (expensive) pens with plastic shafts that most often broke in an unfixable and unreturnable way. Cross pens are nice, but to be honest I am a bit more particular than to simply enjoy the name of a pen. My pens are given to me, or chosen by me at Staples. Their sole common trait is the black ink that flows from them, though its thickness may change. I always have my pen with me. It is the pen I always write with. I usually carry along a second pen or pencil, in case someone might ask me for a pen. That way I may be obliging, without risking the potential loss or theft of my pen (lord knows the amount of friendly kleptomaniacs there are out there!). I may search my purse, fingers browsing through books and odd receipts, to resurface, a smile upon my face, with my second pen/pencil. Reassured of my kindness as I stretch my arm to hand it over, I think to myself, “I am not selfish, I may lend this and not mind not having it returned, or seem overprotective by enquiring when it might be returned.” Yes, a pen girl am I.

Pens are generally used on paper, and here my dilemma begins. Journals serve their own purpose: to write privately what one secretly wishes will one day be discovered and published and hailed as a great retelling and portrait of their life and times. It’s for personal avowals. It serves one’s own personal pride (on the good days) or is rebuffed as useless (on bad days). Then there are notebooks. These are a bit better because they may tend towards the scrapbook, hence the elimination of horizontal lines. Hand writing changes from day to day. And if one wishes to truly let go of their Ego (for lack of a better word), how could one do so along the confines of lines? Scribbling should never be done along preset lines. But then again… is one really scribbling? What if the next great American, or at least Canadian, novel is to come of this scribbling, how do you find yourself in a scrapbook, among doodles? The whole structure is much too confined because the pages can’t be mixed and matched. There’s no cut and paste to a notebook, which is its ultimate downfall. (Please don’t consider scissors and glue; it should be obvious that my notebook is no place for sticky collages.) Also, there’s something much too temporal to these writing books. I never feel comfortable starting up in one with a last entry dating back months, sometimes years. It makes me feel like there is a lack of cohesion to the whole thing. But then again, I hate keeping notebooks filled mostly with blank pages. They seem to be a waste. Tear out the written pages for a clean start? Don’t even think of it! What would I do with the torn out pages? (Don’t even dare think of a trash can…)

I admit, I am much too accustomed to the luxuries of word processing software. I can write, and then erase, or grab a large section to place it elsewhere. Indeed, writers of old would certainly find this generation to be quite fickle, with our delete buttons and spell checks. But these electronic devices do have a downside: the save button. After one writing session, the piece must be saved, which means it must be named. Now, please tell me how can one name a doodle, a scribble, an exercise?
Doodle1.doc
Doodle2.doc
Doodle3.doc
Etc…
One ends up with a total lack of description. How can one find oneself in such a folder? With no other visual cue as a name? And, what would the folder be called? Doodle-september2006? This system has always left me perplexed and frustrated.

So as you can see, I have many obstacles to surmount simply to begin. I’m thinking a good start is by not over-thinking the issue. I will have to begin in earnest next Monday. But I confess, I might write another entry to my blog sometime this week. I might also write a bit in my notebook. Indeed, like pairs of shoes, I might as well have many different tools. That way I’m sure to have one for every occasion, every day, or anyone of my humours.