I’m not sure why I started writing the handwritten journal but it has taken on a life of its own. I write in it nearly every day now.
As a lonely expatriate I get a feeling of anonymous connection by putting pages of the handwritten journal on the Internet. Then I see you at a party and you tell me you read it. Which is unlikely since I live in Italy. Still, I think about the possibility and wonder if some things I say in the journal I should keep to myself.
Writing in the handwritten journal is more satisfying than typing because it involves the shaping of words, the crafting of letters, almost like drawing. As to the “content,” it’s mostly just the river of thoughts running through my head that otherwise would come to me in solitude.
“So what else is new?” I say, to goad the conversation along. To goad, what a wonderful word! (A goad is a spiked stick used for driving cattle.)
