I may or may not be single-handedly supporting the US Postal Service. On average, I send out around three cards a week and have to buy new stamps every month. <Obviously with Saturday service potentially being cancelled, I’m not buying enough stamps. Must buy more Pixar stamps.> If you’ve ever received letters from me, you also know that even as an adult, I like to put stickers on the seal.
During the summers as a kid, I used to write book reports for my dad to read when he would get home from work. This evolved into my dad and me reading the same books - my book reports would peak his interest (or he would wonder what the hell I was talking about, I’m sure). Our first book together way way back when? The Hobbit, of course. We haven’t stopped reading together. Our latest was Yes, Chef by Marcus Samuelsson.
Poems are written in colour. Every time a poem bubbles to the surface, it’s as if it has a filmy sheen of whatever colour that poem means for me at the moment. A more mild version of synesthesia? Maybe. My own poems also tend to bubble up more when emotions are bubbling up as well. When they’re tired of being suppressed and just want to be free. Because words need to be freed.
Half filled notebooks comprise a good portion of my bookshelf. And the script inside them is not a quarter as pretty as I’d like it to be. Two-thirds of the way through writing, by hand, it looks as though someone else has taken over. Is writing by hand like running a marathon? Do you have to train to stay consistent? Or does it mean I have to be more brief?
Obviously, writing is my coping mechanism - for melancholy, joy and the in-between times. It’s how I make sense of it all. For the majority of my life, writing has been kept to myself. So here you are, dear reader, inside my head. Is it as Willy Wonka-ish as you thought it would be?