“one day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” // j. kerouac

 when i was small, everyone joked that i would either become a well-known author, or the assistant to a well-known author.

i am now… neither.

yet, i was never without a crumpled notebook and pencil, ready to scribble something down even when i didn’t have the faintest idea how to recite my ABCs, let alone jot them down.

the habit stayed with me – i would wait, with much anticipation, for that late august day my mother would pack us up and head to the nearest office supply giant to stock up on reams of paper, click-y pens, rulers, and highlighters, (oh my). there are stacks of collaged-upon journals waiting for me in a dusty box upstairs – lines upon lines of teenaged-angst waiting for the perfect moment to rear their dog-eared pages and pants me.

however embarrassing the contents within those notebooks, i miss the time when writing something down didn’t amount to the odd cheque, because really, who still writes cheques? my hand cramps when i handwrite a birthday card, and i can hardly put together my own signature i do it so rarely. to be clear, i love the busy-sound of a keyboard, but i long for the day when using a pen all day left a weird indent in my middle finger, and paper cuts were a daily hazard.

do you think the gas company would like a hand-written letter along with this month’s payment?








→ source : perforated covered notebook by hay via merci

→ source : new gel-ink ballpoint pens via muji

→ source : notebook with plastic cover via merci

→ source : multiples pencil holder via anthropologie

→ source : numbers jotter via present & correct

→ source : the cool kids pencil set via paper pastries

→ source : pretty things inside papier tape via a day with kate


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