I am stunned that I have been able to complete my morning pages for four consecutive days. I was doubtful that I would be able to do it in a paperback-sized notebook, but then I read Julia Cameron's insistence that an 8x11 notebook be used, and was quite sure I wouldn't be able to get through the first day. (This did give me a good excuse to go out and buy a new notebook, though. I scoured my local Paperchase for a big one, couldn't find one, and thought, "Sod it. I'll start in a smaller notebook and work my way up to a large one." What should then appear before my eyes but the only large notebook in the entire shop, on the sale table, looking cute and marked down to £3.75. If I believed in signs, I would believe this was one.)
So: Three pages, longhand, every morning. It's not really that difficult, though it is painful after a few minutes and my writing is completely illegible about a quarter of the way in. I know it's supposed to be stream of consciousness stuff, but I have slipped into using the pages as a way to write out how I've been feeling, what's been going on, what I dreamed the night before - the kind of stuff I wouldn't normally blog. Then, out of nowhere, I'll start writing about how weird it is that I love to hang clothes outside to dry when I hate putting them on hangers indoors, or how calming it is to handwash my lingerie.
That is to say, my morning pages are a mess, but they are getting written. Long may it continue.
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