Robin is to Batman, like my little black book is to my prose, a great sidekick.
It’s slightly larger than pocket size, but small enough to carry with me. This book houses the inkwell of my soul, rather my thoughts. My rawest, random, observations and inner most thoughts are jotted down here in bits and pieces. Unlike a journal or a diary, I have no problem sharing the verses dearest to my heart. Someday these pieces will find a home on another page.
I’ve kept a book of personal prompts for seven years. It began as a creative writing assignment; we had to keep a pocket size book to track our progress and such. We could treat it as a journal or diary. It could be anything we wanted it to be, really. We just had to date our entries.
Mine, became a book of ideas to thwart off writer’s block. I kept the book beside me, employing it as a net. I’d dip my notebook into a sea of thought, catching salmon, tuna and bass. Sometimes these fishy thoughts would slip away from me and sometimes they’d make it into my pages. My thoughts would sit upon those pages until I needed them. Once the class ended, I was sad to part ways with it. Even though I could get it back 48 hours later.
Today, that first volume of personal prompts, poetry scraps as such is a nostalgic article too. Whereas my most recent one has been through rain, the passage of time, cement, and a broken spine. It’s a treasure chest of ideas, even if I affectionately call it poetry “crap” or poetry scraps. My little book is a character in itself, inspiring me one minute and sitting closed off the next. Yet its purpose is infinite. It’s one of the most precious tools found in my “toolbox”. From its pages my poetry, prose and artwork (T’ART) emerges.
(first posted on triond Authspot)