compulsion

I am a compulsive writer.

I carry a little notebook in my wallet (both of which I made) for writing erant thoughts. I carry a larger journal in my back pocket.

And I write and write. I fill 4 or 5 journals a year, maybe 100,000 words, all hand written in semi-legible scrawl.

I am certainly not a great write, but I do alright.

There is one problem, however. I really don’t have anything to say.

Each day I fill a page or three, mostly of the stuff of life, the little stuff, the stuff that does not matter 24 hours later. I know all of that, but I still am compelled to write and write.

Some journal writers will only write on acid free paper that should be readable in 100 years or more. Maybe they are writing words that are timeless, taht will be of interest to generations not yet thought of.

Who will read my journals? One daughter promised she will, but that is a task that is way to large and boring.

And, the nutty thing is that while I am sure my journals are not a good use of ink or paper, I continue to write and write.

Like all good compulsions, if I don’t write I feel guilty, even if there really is nothing important to say.

I guess that is just how it works.