From an email I had received from the Atticus Review:
I’m still compelled to do morning pages, but I treat the exercise differently now. I’m not mincing words, I’m just not leaving them legible. I write a line, then I write right over it. Again and again.
I love that my writing turns into pure visual art. The joy of shapes over shapes filling in spaces, of the curls and loops, the coincidence of letters. The way the paper indents and wrinkles and the audial element this adds especially when I use the back of the pages. How it looks when I write just once over the top, or when I write an entire page’s worth of words on one line.
I love especially that there will never be an audience. Or sense. Or a story. Just small pages of blue scribbles, inscrutable, reflection-proof, judgement-proof.
Journaling is play now. My morning pages lines give me energy like my old method never did. And the record I leave (though I am the only one who knows it) is one of joy
