Tools of the trade

Wow, it's been just a little over a day since I last posted. Haven't had a blog post this close to another in... a long time. So anyways, this started out as a comment on Lifehacker, and it became a lot longer than a comment should be. And being a boring person obsessed with pens and notebooks, I couldn't delete it, so here it is.

I love writing. Pen on paper. While I can get the same words down while typing, faster and actually legible to a normal human, it doesn't have the same life. Written words have personality. If your thoughts wander, they go with you without too much thought... if my mind wanders while at the computer, I have to stop typing. When writing, I'll think, and it will somehow end up on paper. Not always truly resembling words (I tend to make m's with three humps, and W's become triple-u's) but I can correct that easily enough. I make plenty of mistakes I have to cross out, but it adds to the character of the page, and my notebook looks well-loved and well-used by he time I'm done. Two rules for all writing: 1) printing = doom. I only write in cursive unless absolutely necessary. 2) I must have lined notebooks, but wide-ruled kills me. I have rather horrid writing skills (People claim my handwriting is beautiful, but illegible - like 18th century letters) so I need a lined notebook. This is in all cases. I cannot write smaller than the lines provided (psychological quirk), and writing large words makes my handwriting even worse, especially since I use very narrow pens.

For journals, diaries, and random musings, NOTHING works as beautifully as a Moleskine large lined notebook and a black Pilot G-2. I love the width (height?) of the Moleskine lines. It's the perfect stze for my handwriting. I don't know the technical size, but it is smaller than college-ruled. Perfect. The sheets are the perfect thickness, and a soft ivory off-white. I feel as though I were writing something profound on that paper, even though it's usually something to the effect of "It's snowing again." Then again, George Orwell, a man I consider to be one of the greatest writers of all time, had journal entries consisting of, and I quote, "12/1/39. Three eggs." And I'll bet he used a Moleskine. There's hope for me yet! In any case, it will be amusing ten years from now to find out what I considered important

For notes from school and stuff I'll actually have to remember later, I'll use a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook + four .5mm Pilot G-2s, one each black, red, green, and blue. I color-code based on importance of point (if I'm in a hurry or I have to write quickly, I write in black and put a colored star next to important points). If I hate the class, I burn the notebook at the end of the semester. It's a highly symbolic and satisfying endeavor, and the most when it came to my history class. I have never lit a match with more glee than the day after my history final. Oh, I love history, just not the way some people teach it.

For writing (short stories and the like), a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook and my beloved G-2s. A different system, though. Write in black, first round of edits in other colors. Red = DIE SENTENCE/WORD, DIE!!! HOW ON EARTH I LET THIS FILTH NEAR MY BEAUTIFUL STORY IS BEYOND COMPREHENSION! Green = Hmm, better fix this. The premise is good, but it needs a new word or phrase, or perhaps a little exposition. Blue = KEEP THIS AT ALL COSTS, EVEN IF IT MEANS SELLING THE GRAND PIANO, THAT I DO NOT ACTUALLY HAVE, IN ORDER TO AFFORD FOOD BECAUSE THIS MUST STAY FOR IT IS PERFECT. Once I have made note of the edits to be done, I then copy over to the computer. The reason it's a normal notebook is because I tend to write out of order, and I have to tear it out and put it in the right order when I'm done. Also, I change so much while writing, that it would be sacrilege to cross out so much on a Moleskine (They're expensive, too; can't forget that).

For Bible study, I use the multiple-pen, color-coded routine on a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook. Multiple colors to make certain points stand out, and a notebook for the same reason as writing... my thoughts go everywhere and I try to organize later. If I'm doing a study on Romans and decide to do a Bible study on fasting the next day, I can do so, and then the day after that go back to Romans - later, I'll rip 'em all out and put them in a 3-ring binder, with Romans together and Fasting later. For sermon notes, I do that on the computer, since I can type faster than write, and I have the Bible on here too, which makes it much easier to search for a verse. I do tend to copy those notes down later, if only for redundancy and to refresh it in my mind, and to add any more thoughts I might have.

There you have it. Random, pointless, and useless ramblings. Blogging is fun that way. You can write stuff that no one usually would see, and probably still won't, but you can feel important because someone might, someday, read it. Congratulations, whoever you are! You just boosted my ego! Not that I know it. I think I need some sleep. I'm rambling again.

Storm

Well, this is kinda-sorta based on something that really happened. Except it didn't. The weather and place is real, from a few years ago, but I made everything else up. Basically it's what I wish I could be doing right now. But I'm not. So I had to make it up.

It's dark outside. Last time I glanced at the clock, it wasn't even 3:30, and it already looks as though dusk were falling. The clouds are thick, obscuring the sun, and mirroring my mood. It should start raining any minute now – I can see lightning flash over the water.

I open the glass door and step out onto the third-story balcony. A little over thirty feet below me, the water is churning angrily, beating on the sand. I rented this beach front house for the week, knowing the storm was in the forecast. The leftovers of a hurricane that gazed Florida has finally reached the shores of Delaware, and me. I find something strangely calming about the chaos. Perhaps it's because there is no pattern or consistency, so I feel no need to impose order.

It's not often I get a chance to do nothing. There's always something I need or want to do, and if not then I'd be thinking of something else I could do. It never stops or slows down. But here, I can stop doing. Stop thinking. Just stop. Pretend that there is no such thing as time passing by. No appointments, no deadlines, nothing except me and the ocean.

Leaning on the weathered wood railing, I distractedly sip the coffee I've been holding, trying to ward off the chill of the wind as it suddenly picks up. The air feels more like late Fall, not at all like I'm standing here in the middle of July. I look to either side of the house; all along the beach are summer homes, crowded together with hardly enough room to walk between. Each one that I can see seems deserted, closed up against the wind and rain. Silent. Ghostly. It's a stark contrast to the churning sea ahead of me. Wide open, with nothing but water for miles and miles, and yet full of energy and life. I hear the waves roar below me, and the sound of the raindrops as they begin to come down.

A few scattered drops at first, then suddenly it starts pouring down in sheets. I set the coffee cup down on the railing as I close my eyes and tilt my head back, feeling the water stream down over my eyelids, trail over my cheeks and down to my lips. I am soaked within seconds, but I ignore that. I stretch my arms out to either side, spreading my fingers. Enjoying the sensation of rain on my skin.

I'd probably look utterly crazy right about now, if someone would happen to glance out a window and look at me. Just standing in the rain, in a tank top and thin jeans.

I lean forward again and open my eyes. I can barely see the ocean through the rain. A lightning bolt suddenly tears across the sky, and a split second later the thunder comes. It's not a harsh crack, nor is it a soft rumble. I can feel it in my chest, a low, heavy rumble that seems to continue for longer than possible. As it fades away, it seems almost silent. The thunder was loud enough to drown out the waves and the rain, but I can slowly hear them again.

It's time to go back inside though – I'm not completely insane. I grab the coffee cup and turn to walk back toward the house. I open the door and quickly step inside. I grab the towel I had left just inside the door and wrap it around my shoulders. I stare out the window for a few more minutes, watching the rivulets of rain on the glass as a puddle forms at my feet. I feel better than I have in months.