I keep a journal in my black messenger bag that I lug back and forth with me to the office.  I am not a journal-er, but I write every day in e-mode.  I want desperately to write in a journal using my sexy hunter green Mont Blanc or my vamp-red Cross Fountain Pen that is heavenly to hold.  It's a commitment that is difficult to keep.  My handwriting is all loops and dips, it angles left and right, and is a combo of printing and cursive.  I'm sure an expert's report after a cursory analysis  would see the word 'QUESTIONABLE' stamped in red by a rubber stamp at the top, and below the stamped word, also in red,  the hand written words possibly creative, perhaps crazy, but not certain without more analysis.  This is why I use my trusty 64-bit Toshiba to store all my secret words.

Still, passions to keep a hand-written journal run deep ever since I read the essay by Joan Didion titled, Why I Write.  I've yearned to write by hand with my pretty little pens in a journal.  (The pen obsession came about when I fell in deep feeling with letter writing, Par Avion Air Mail types of letters on the cobalt, feather light paper.)   Passions are fleeting (sadly) and so is this one, which has led me to buy journal after journal only filling a page or ten before abandoning the exercise all together, until now. 

My first visit to old-fashioned type of stationary store in the City that has oodles of unnecessary paper items,  journals, standard office stuff—paper clips, ink cartridges, staples—three entire rows of pens of all shapes, sizes, and colors, ranging in price from $.99 to the too expensive for me-Asian fountain pens. (I longing drool over said pens every time I go into the store.  Some women covet Jim Choos; I'd consider hawking my husband for one of those pens. )

I lingered too long of over the pen case and ended up with a new pen that I had no need for, but a girl can never have too many I convinced myself.   I paid and was headed for the door excited to go back to the office and write the name of my lost lover over and over on the notebook that I carry around to meetings pretending to make notes, but really, it's rare that I write anything about the meeting.  The path to the exit was blocked by a woman with baby stroller built for two, so I veered left and boom there they were, alone just waiting for only me.  Journal orgasm.

More rushed breath, miniature beads of perspiration over my lip, heart palpitations, and the voice in my head telling to keep walking.  Walk out that door-NOW.  No more journals, you have at least twelve at home.  Of course, I argued back, but none like this one….  It wasn't even sexy or pink, nor did it have colored pages, or quotes by famous people.  It is a sophisticated student school journal.  There is a handy grammar cheat sheet, measurements, commonly misspelled works, maps and gosh, just about everything I have no need for but just had to have at that instant.  I marched to the counter and paid cash.  Calm restored.  I had my fix, a pen and a journal.

I could hardly contain myself, and nearly skipped back to the office all the while thinking that every day I would turn the page and write something…. Oh, just something I promised.  It's been six weeks and you know what, I am.  I write every day in my crazy script.  It turns out that I need to have someone to write to someone, like in those old Par Avion letters, to keep my commitment.  Every day I turn the page and start out the entry to my lost lover.  Funny how that turned out, but if it works, I figure why change a good thing.