Four years ago I wrote these words: “There are stories I need to tell.”
Reading the pages of this moleskin notebook now, it feels like watching your own baby steps. The pacing is erratic, the tone is rather grandiose, and I’d clearly just read something of Kerouac’s. But it’s fascinating to see what happened once I began to take my writing seriously, how I started to learn to distill all of these emotions and experiences into words. To see how much neater my handwriting used to be.
There are parts that are funny and embarrassing to read now that I’ve grown as a person and a writer, but there are also parts that are powerful, that sent shivers down my spine. The way I wrote about friendships changing, the beautiful nostalgia for people and places about to be lost, my struggle to figure out who I was and what made me happy now that I’d graduated university.
Four years later, I’m about to publish my second book. But those books, all my books it seems, they began in the pages of a moleskin notebook.
“There are stories I need to tell.”