The Blank Notebook

Every day for the last half year I’ve sat down, written 200-400 words, edited, formatted, titled, tag lined, hash-tagged, tweeted, posted, blogged, shared and archived.

Even after nearly six months of daily and solid effort, I sometimes question what all this is for.

I suppose if there weren’t hard days, everyone would just do everything they dreamed about and it wouldn’t be any big thing.

I even called in the wise counsel of my accountability brü today. Then I spent most of our meeting time complaining.

We talked about process. We talked about progress. We talked a great deal about intent.


It’s a funny word. It’s also something we don’t think about too much these days.

Why do we do the things we do?

Why show up here everyday and scream “We are here!” into the void?

Why share mistakes, triumphs, thoughts and feelings?

I thought I knew my reasons. I thought I wanted to become a writer, a better writer even over time. I thought I wanted to use that platform to create additional interesting professional opportunities and even make a little change on the side.

They aren’t false, per se, but I realized they aren’t the end all be all reason.

Years ago when my father was still relatively healthy, I gave him a nice leatherbound notebook. I asked him to share stories and memories. I hoped to one day read his musings and opinions as my brother and I grew up and left home to take on the world.

When he passed late last year, I found the notebook tucked away in his closet.


I’m here every day because I resolved for my notebook to never be blank again.

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