This is quite extraordinary, I mean ordinary! In general, your posts reveal a writer’s life very much like one’s own, only that one carries on in secret, in shame, hoping no one will notice all the passion, all the waste. So MANY journals, so MANY hopes, each color coded. I could duplicate this lovely series, but, again, I’d have to find them, for I have hidden them. Many I have thrown away. Even the ones I’ve kept have this discordia concors: all blank books, variously filled and unfilled. A true chaos.
Wee ones to oversized elephants. What vanity and vexation of spirit. Amongst them, a few poems that saw the light of a periodical, in autograph, mercilessly cancelled. Or is there mercy in murdering one’s darlings?
Now, can you do this with pens, pencils?
Clark Knowles 
This is quite extraordinary, I mean ordinary! In general, your posts reveal a writer’s life very much like one’s own, only that one carries on in secret, in shame, hoping no one will notice all the passion, all the waste. So MANY journals, so MANY hopes, each color coded. I could duplicate this lovely series, but, again, I’d have to find them, for I have hidden them. Many I have thrown away. Even the ones I’ve kept have this discordia concors: all blank books, variously filled and unfilled. A true chaos.
Wee ones to oversized elephants. What vanity and vexation of spirit. Amongst them, a few poems that saw the light of a periodical, in autograph, mercilessly cancelled. Or is there mercy in murdering one’s darlings?
Now, can you do this with pens, pencils?