Notes on a notebook

Nappy Valley Girl asked me, in her comment on my last post, if I always write blog posts in a notebook, and the answer is no. I rarely do so. I usually type them on the computer. I do, however, have notebooks that I used for writing at the time when I was blogging a lot. I didn't use them very much, so there's not a lot in them, but there are a few half-written posts, or thoughts scribbled down for future mulling over.

I kept one in the car, in the driver's door pocket, a big A4 size one, hardback, and sometimes I'd write when I was waiting to pick up a child, or killing time in a car park for some other reason (looking at you, soccer training). There were others that I took on journeys, A5 size, travel handbag size. There's a really nice leather-bound one, which I remember initially feeling was rather too nice to write in at all! Notebooks were for blogging on the go. This was in the days before smart phones (though I find it really hard to write more than a very short email on a phone, so that wouldn't have helped).

Then there was this little notebook, the one from which I was copying out my last post. It's mobile-phone-sized, and lovely to look at. (Sorry, not a very good photo.)

I have a soft spot for this one. It's not mine; it belongs to Husband. It was a present from a friend of ours, when I was diagnosed with cancer. She gave it to him, saying that he should take it along when accompanying me to medical appointments. It would be helpful to write a list of questions in advance, and to note down what the doctor said. She was so right on both counts. What a very kind, thoughtful, and practical present.

I came across the notebook last week when I was looking for one to take to a work meeting that I was going to from home. It was too small and flowery to be suitable for that, but I started leafing through it. It tells the story of those very intense few weeks, mostly in Husband's handwriting. There's a careful list of phone numbers (how many kind people rallied!). There are 'To Do' lists, including one titled "Thurs Eve", which must have been for the day I had my mastectomy, judging by the things on it (three phone calls to make, feed hamster, and e-mail friends/family). There are a few pages ruled into sections to make a diary, with notes of places the children had to be, and if someone was going to pick them up. I like the entry that reads "J will collect at 9am - go to donuts and then the zoo". I bet that was a fun day for them! There is a list of questions, in my handwriting this time, about Kindergarten - I'd obviously felt the need to send Husband along to an open evening suitably briefed. ("What writing do they teach, and in what grades? Cursive? Sports? How many times a week do they do PE? Music? Other non-American children? Homework? Playground - have a look.") There are lists of questions for doctors, and hastily scribbled answers -  the lists that the notebook was intended for. Lists that give me a bit of a jolt when I read them. Lists that contain "pain meds, steroids, nightmares, can I expect similar pattern next time?" And then there are my thoughts on blogging and writing, that you saw in my previous post. I don't remember where or when I wrote those. I know it was a few months later, because it comes after another, jollier, list, one planning a child's birthday party ("no 2 o'clocks available, balloons $12 doz, hot dogs or pizza, tell Jeanne 2.30 - 4.15").

Remember the idea of a notebook. It's a lovely thing to give someone going through a medical crisis, should you find yourself wondering what to give a friend in that situation.

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Old thoughts on blogging

I came across a little notebook the other day. It dates back to 2009, when I was blogging away for dear life. There's a blog post in it, which I remember writing. I didn't publish it, because it wasn't finished. It didn't express what I wanted to say - not quite, anyway. Re-reading it now, I find I like it. It doesn't say all I wanted to say, but it does say something. I thought you'd like to read it.

"One thing that blogging has taught me is how powerful the process of writing is. There is something about thinking carefully what words you choose to frame an experience that helps to make sense of it. Or at least to live with the non-sense of it. I have found, too, that words can help you re-frame an experience. It can be like looking at an object from different angles. 

A bowl of fruit, for example, to an artist is the material for a still life painting. To a chef, it's a stock of juicy ingredients. To a mother, it's a burden of healthy food to be coaxed into the mouths of recalcitrant children. Writing is a tool with which I see things in different ways, and the seeing can be a becoming. Just as the bowl of fruit can become different things, though it remains the same, so life's experiences can morph into different shades and colours.

Does any of that make sense?"

That is what I wrote, and though it wasn't finished, I would say to my seven-years-younger self, yes, I think some of that does make sense.

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