Each week Lisa-Jo gives us a prompt and we write on it for five minutes. No editing or over thinking. Then we link up and encourage one another. Ready to try? This week's prompt is story.
I bought spiral notebooks this week, as I do every end of July/early August. The smell of paper, the way the pages flip through my fingers gives me a sort of high.
In my childhood home there was a small closet in the hallway that housed an ironing board, odds and ends, and school supplies including a big stack of notebooks. Oh, how I loved when I was told I could get a brand new notebook.
Sometimes I wrote on the front "Private. Do not read. Stay out." Dotting my i's with hearts, of course. I recorded my hopes and dreams and all the drama an eleven year old can encounter. But mostly I wrote stories. I believed them to be just as good as the Judy Blume and Ann M. Martin books I was devouring. They were about friends and family and everything I wanted my life to be like.
Somewhere along the way I think I have lost my love for writing a story. Not so much the love for it as much as I have become my own biggest critic. The delete button is much easier than crossing out ink from a blue Bic ink pen. I want to just tell stories and be just as impressed with them as I was at eleven.