Scraps 1.4

They say it takes five hundred hours of practice to develop a positive habit. I have no idea who they are and how they found this out, but that’s the statistic.

And I don’t know how long I have been doing it, but I have developed this habit. I can tell you it has been more than five hundred hours. But I don't know if it is positive. Maybe... 

Normally, I have a notebook with me. Most times. At least in my car, if not in my bag or in my hand. I carry it for the hopeful ideas I may have; starting a business, writing a new blog post, or a workout for later in the week.

But sometimes, I never write in it. I will find a scrap of paper in the bottom of my bag, crinkled, torn, stained from whatever fell out and soaked everything at one point. It may have come from the edge of a receipt, or a previous note. I still find notes from my old jobs in the bottom of my backpack. First sign of a packrat is…

Then I have to find a pen. Or a pencil. I have resorted to etching into the paper with my nail, but it didn’t work well. I don’t think I could do blood. I get a little queasy. I have a assemblage of writing utensils. Some I have reluctantly purchased with the intent of using them for my precious notebooks. Some I have collected accidently, snagging them from restaurants, doctor’s offices, schools, but never from friends. Most of my friends would hunt me down for that pen. We writers are a crazy crew.

Finally after digging one out of the deep, societally acceptable gargantuan bag, I write down the thought in rushed anxious script before the fleeting ida vanishes off into the universe. Even with technology today, you would think I may have the wherewithal to keep the note in my phone, to be found later and then further written discourse in said notebook would take place. Come on, that actually makes sense. And since my life never makes sense, why would I do that then?

There is something to those scattered ideas that float in bottoms of bags and in back pockets I have sported. I try to remember the ideas, or the inspiration, which provoked them.  Truly. But I slide that slip of paper into that crevasse of a pocket, a chasm of notions, impressions, and dreams. Only to be found again after an unanticipated deep clean, dumping the bag while trying to find my misplaced debit card, or the ball that forms after a couple spin cycles on the jeans I had piled in the corner.

And when it is found again, I find new inspiration, the character the paper itself has now created in itself, beyond the words written on it. Its own being now. The edges frayed and torn, wrinkled over words you meant to remember. Yellowed from time, blurred and smeared now, the writings create a new. Starting the inspiration all over again. Let me find a piece of paper…