I love paper. Not just any paper, mind you. There's a certain allure to blank parchment, waiting to be filled. Whenever I go to Barnes & Noble or Borders, I can't help but go straight to the section filled with journals and address books. The journals beckon to me, inviting me to fill their starchy-white pages with words. I browse the leather-bound parchments with visions of what would fill the books. Short stories in a thin volume bound in green leather adorned with Celtic knot work. Spiritual poetry in a thick, bright red tome embossed with a heart aflame. Daily entries into the plain and flat leather-back, it's surface rugged with the tanning process.
I can see them all in my mind's eye, filled and proud, while sitting on my bookshelf. They would gather the proper amount of dust, of course; enough dust would add to the maturity of the book's character, mellowing its look, its feel and its smell.
The reams of blank paper seem to scream for somebody to fill them, and the ironic thing is that I know I never can. Yes, I am a writer….
Continue reading “The Blank Page" at Lord Jones Is Dead.