Never Walked In High Heels

There is very little more frightening in this world than a blank piece of paper, unless, of course, it is a blank notebook. I always used to get terrified at the expectation thrust upon me when I received a new journal. My first one, given to me by my father when I was five years old, I refused to write in for fear of making it imperfect. Rather, I preferred my parents to take dictation in  it for me so that their hand writing  could be seen in the small book rather than my own. And despite the nightly ritual of dictating my thoughts and recapping my days to my parents for instant transcription, I never really felt as if the book was mine.

Fast forward to my young adult life and you’ve found a young woman teaching in a one room schoolhouse within the slums of Matamoros, hardly having any idea of who she is or how to handle a classroom ranging in age of 5-18. I’m clueless and my Spanish is rocky at best. After classes, my teaching assistant and I go back to our compound to journal and avoid the sun. It is there, within the tiled room of the kitchen, balancing one foot on a stool while cutting limes for dinner, that I find my refreshment in the hours of scribbling down whatever pops into my head unedited. One evening I pull the red leather book out of my backpack, only to find it sopping wet through from a bottle of water, which had leaked in my bag. I am horrified at the loss. It turns out some of the ink I write in isn’t waterproof, and much of what I’ve written has been washed away from traveling in the desert. I lay the soggy book out to dry; it is salvageable, but it will never be in the same condition again. And certainly, it will never be in the conditioned that I envisioned for it. 

I love that book and every stain that’s on it. I love the fact that, left on its own, the thing won’t stay closed, like it can’t wait to tell its stories.  It’s uncontrollable, as all good creative works are. It reflects my time in the slums better than I could in a thousand words. And I’m okay with being outdone by a beat up book. It’s part of the process.

There are some who will ask me “so your own electronic column? What are you going to do with that, Miss?” And the truth is, I don’t know. I have visions for Never Walked in High Heels, but I’ll know when it takes off, when its gone somewhere I wasn’t planning on going. After all, it’s the first of its kind, full of style, wit, panache and ideas from an unlikely source. 

I went down to London’s Southbank a few weeks ago and picked up two leather journals, both of them deep red and perfect. A Dutch bookbinder put them together with old leather so they’ve already seen their salad days. Everything from now on just builds character. 

Just as well really. Regardless of who you are, everyday deserves a fresh, blank page.