notes from a creative writing PhD candidate
Underneath my childhood bed, in my father’s home, I keep eleven tattered journals stored in an anqitue hat box. My first journal, given to me on Christmas Day in 1993, is small, the size of my hand, with a painting of two white kittens on the front. The most recent journal, its final entry dated in early April 2010, is bursting at the seams; there are so many papers, coasters, and photos wedged between its covers that the spine has completely cracked.
I still write down quotes and paste small mementos–concert tickets, flowers– in a blue and white leather notebook given to me last winter, but the daily routine of writing in a journal has passed. The main reason is because of time: I commute a total of three hours a day back and forth to my full-time job, and when I get home I have only a few hours to do all the things a life requires–go for a run, cook, shop for food, do laundry.
Since my boss would clearly see me scribbling in a journal at work, a blog stealthily allows me to write without being conspicuous; it looks as though I’m busy toiling away for the company while in reality I’m doing anything but. (Ha!) Perhaps the days of worn, bursting journals are done; instead of keeping my thoughts in a dusty box miles away, I’ve decided to chronicle reviews of books, movies I see, and places I visit, here.
Ideally, writing will be my full-time job. But in the meanwhile I must settle for (almost) daily posts on books I’m reading, conversations that I overhear, briefings from travels, and other marginalia.