I suppose I should be flattered that whoever picked up the journal kept it. I might have felt worse had been tossed out like trash, but that someone found value in that book is, well, sort of a comfort. I have this fantasy of signing copies of “Oliver and Me” when someone walks up and lays the journal down on the table in front of me with a contrite expression.
Undaunted by the loss the other day, that night I picked up another journal that night. In this age of computers it might seem a bit old-fashioned. I am very computer literate, but for art, I need that tactile sense. I need to put pen to an empty piece of paper and let go. There is something in the promise of that empty page, the reality of touching it, the scratch of the pen across the tooth of the paper. It is, for me, more conducive, to creating than the awkward, cold and final thump of fingers upon plastic computer keys.
So I bought the journal, but haven’t cracked it yet. Not that I don’t anticipate that slight crackle as the cover pulls gently from the first page, or the retort from the empty page to “fill me!”
I can’t right now. It just feels like this obligatory response to the lost story, and that I am simply and mechanically copying what was lost. It feels like replacing a friend, which seems fundamentally wrong to me.
I’ll give it a few days, sowing the seeds in anticipation of recreating the lost parts with anticipated inspiration for some aspect of the story I needed to mature to, or which the characters were keeping to themselves. I’ll make it part of the process, and by extension part of the healing. It will be okay. It will…It will.