For some time I have carried a small Moleskine notebook for recording thoughts, things I have read, ideas and other assorted 'stuff'. This morning I opened one of these little tomes and found myself enjoying jottings from several years ago while enjoying a hot cup of tea. I seemed to remember where I was when I recorded many of them. Others I seemed to be reading for the first time. Some even elicited the desire to write about and explore more deeply. Is that how the literary greats began?
I have been fascinated by books and writers since I was very young. The art of writing has a certain glamor in which I longed to participate. While having dreamt of writing the next best-seller maybe I now realize that simply affixing words to paper is sufficient joy. I wonder if Hemingway and Steinbeck ever felt than way?
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