I am a pro journalist. I’m not talking published works that change the world. I’m talking volumes of diaries. There is a box buried in the attic stuffed with at least 20 journals and loose-leaf paper all scribbled over with my dreams, routines, and childish rants. That does not include the pile of leather bound journals stacked next to my bed, nor my moleskins tucked away in purses and bags. And don’t get me started on how many sketch journals I have. I could never bear to get rid of the papered mess that I have, although I’m sure half of it may be quite worthless. When the pencil becomes gripped between my fingers and touches to paper, history is made. It is not your history, nor anyone’s but mine. My writings and drawings are important to me. More than important, actually, they are invaluable. I not only crave to record my every moment, but I feel that it is my duty. When I do not put pencil to paper, I feel as if I have left a memory to disappear and fade into the back of my mind.
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