I don’t buy diaries—
their grids of days feel like cages.
Some mornings, silence sits heavy,
other nights spill over with words.
The pages never match the pulse.
Instead, I choose notebooks:
Leuchtturm1917, Rhodia, Clairefontaine,
Moleskine, Midori, Tomoe River—
paper that welcomes ink,
paper that listens.
My fountain pen glides,
its nib a small compass,
and the pages open like maps.
I begin with the date,
then let thought wander:
a stray idea,
a poem half formed,
a recipe waiting for spice.
I number the pages,
lay a table of contents at the front—
a quiet index of memory,
a way to return to what was planted.
Later, I harvest:
transferring seeds of thought
into the laptop’s soil.
Thirty two notebooks now,
each a field of essays,
each a garden of poems.
This is the rhythm that works for me.
Perhaps, if you try,
you’ll find your own harvest waiting.
