The journals I bought before this one all stayed home
Every one of them was too big, too precious, or too pretty to risk in a bag. So they lived on a shelf, and life happened everywhere else.
By the time I sat down at a desk, the small thing I wanted to keep had already faded. The journal was never with me when it mattered.
This one rides along. Coffee shop, airport, the back seat of an Uber, the waiting room. It is the one I actually write in because it is the one I actually have.





