Here you are, on top of a blank page, not sure how to go on, insecure and at the same time confident in the pure act of writing. You are aware of your weakness to proper express yourself in English - it’s not your native language after all. Your vocabulary is not that rich and when it comes to grammar you can’t think more appropriate words than those Molière wrote in Les Femmes Savantes “grammar, which can govern even kings”. The plan was to write in Greek but it’s difficult to do all the writing and then translate it, plus it takes much more time and time is a luxury you don’t have. So you try to keep it simple, no fancy words, one sentence after the other and you’ll see how it works.
You want to write. That’s a statement. You have no aspiration of being a writer, you only have the need to declutter your head, to pull out all the noise and shape your thoughts. You are stuck. That’s a statement too. And you want to move on. You have the desire to create and to evolve through the process, but - there is always a but - you don’t know how to do it.
It’s late, you are out on the balcony for a smoke and while reflecting upon your current creative block and your anachronistic joy of smoking all of the sudden thoughts pop up on your mind running fast like the end titles of a movie. Thoughts eager to be written, thoughts that dictate you to give them the life they deserve and it’s clear to you this is the only way. Pen and paper.
It could be pencil and paper. The black soft tip going from left to right gradually getting smaller and the gentle grind of charcoal against paper. You love that sound, more of a sensation than a sound actually, a faint scratch changing every instant until inevitably it stops. You need then a sharpener, a small break and off you go again. A lovely routine to follow, and you endured to it for many years until you changed sides and went for the blue ballpoint pen. You don’t remember how many tests you wrote with one of these pens but you can still recall all the letters you wrote to far away friends. You can’t help it but adore that transparent plastic little tube and the coloured ink inside as it served you well up until now.
And lines. You like lines. You also like the squared grids that old school notebooks used to have, but they are hard to find, so you stick with lines. You love lines, they hold something of a promise in their empty space that is waiting to be filled. You need lines, their parallel universe has a soothing effect on you and the ability to keep you on track cause you tend to lose yourself in your own thoughts.
You leave the balcony and enter the house going straight to the library. You choose a notebook, the first one you find. You don’t really like it, in fact you don’t like it at all. It is red and rather large - not your thing, but in the end it’s full of empty pages and lots of lines. That will do.