I wanted to say something profound about Syria because now American’s aren’t traveling there – again based on the idea that it is not good to take your mother to a city like Damascus where the locals are shooting each other at random.
Anyway, to enhance my post, I searched for the travel notebook I kept during the trip. I store these messy travel note books in nice boxes stacked on the book shelves in my youngest son’s abandon bedroom now serving as the guest room. In my frustrated search for the Syria/Turkey notes – October 2010, exactly a year ago, I unearthed eleven additional note books containing the random chronicles of my life. Not my travels, just my life. I know why these were saved: everything I write is terribly important. I leafed through the pages and realized I was half right: they were terrible.
These pretty, colorful notebooks were as redeemable as a rough draft. If I’m living the second or even third draft of what these book lay out, why am I keeping the older scribblings? I have, at the very least, typed some of this life, spelled checked it, and occasionally formatted it for blog entries.
What to do? I’m not Mark Twain. I don’t even want to read this stuff.
So I tossed them all, pretty covers and everything, into the recycling.
A grand, compulsive gesture from a compulsive writer. But it felt good. The gesture freed me to move forward and work with even more focus on the third draft of my journey. And leave the initial musings behind.