It is, however, an ache you learn to put up with as entire months are missed. The drawer called and its calls were dismissed; my head urged me to write whereupon I gave myself a firm talking to, for what was the use? what was the point? who was it for? Save it for something momentous, not for monotonous trifles or grey-dead feelings. Even anger was better to record than dullness or whines.
So, 2017 passed in which I commented less, and life felt more cut and dry. A richness had gone because I didn't care. Who would be there to make sense of it anyway when I cast this body off? Despite the fact that it was an exercise that cleared my head and was proof, should these Nothing Books (for there are two boxes of them!) outlive me, of my existence. Still, I had wanted to see if I could rely on this medium less...maybe do without altogether, and I had made progress though my unwritten thoughts made it somewhat embittered. Unexpressed, they left a sour taste which meant that some of the time which would have been engaged in writing was instead spent rinsing my mouth and scrubbing my tongue. My gums therefore were healthier but my penmanship was altered.
What do they say? If you don't use it, lose it. And list-making, in my view, doesn't count, for it cannot compare to a flow of words, seeming to write themselves, across a blank page. But when I did take up my pen after an interval I was much more critical of my efforts: there were imperfections in my letters and careless spelling mistakes in combination with a bit of dyslexia which was uncommon. As if being a lefty wasn't trial enough! Words are sometimes smudged by the movement of my hand as I can't do that upside down over-the-top-of-the-page thing. Nor do I, you might like to note, reverse my knife and fork, though I occasionally struggle to cut with 'normal' scissors. But playing hockey is the only real difficulty I think I've ever had, and there was nothing that could be done to solve that, though I really think Miss Clark could have been more sympathetic and not scolded me quite so much for it was mostly the design of the stick that caused the handicap. Although to be fair, if her displeased looks were anything to go by, she didn't rate me as a basketball, netball or badminton player either, nor as a gymnast. Dancing, however, was not something she taught and there I did a little better for Ms Brown took pity on those who tried, rather desperately at times, to overcome their clunkiness, and in that I wasn't alone.
That's the type of thing you put in Nothing Books. Odd remembrances and current grievances.
Games mistresses who made your experiences of school a little unpleasant and bosses who irritate and irritated you. And then there's the words you choose, because, for example, Games Mistress sounds much more Mallory Towers and jolly hockey sticks than masculine P.E Teacher; and so in this way you mix your reality with fiction and make out this is the universe you inhabit to soften the blows you receive.
It's a practise that once firmly established in your life is hard to let go of. Even the choosing of the Book is sacrosanct, for it can't just be any old notebook. Each, for those of us who do or did practise it, have their own preferences: hard or soft back, pocket or medium-sized, lined or unlined, white or cream pages, possibly edged with gold. There's a discipline to it, a science of taste, just as there's a loose method as to how or what you record and when.
Picture credit: Helene Hanff, AZ Quotes
