Thoughts on the train #21

I really must start using a fountain pen again, she thought. A classy black one with a handcrafted silver nib. Engraved with little curlicues and monograms. I must buy a beautiful notebook with handmade paper, and fill it with profound scrawlings in gleaming black ink.

Just then, the phone beeped. Quickly, dexterously, she typed out a response, thumbs flying.

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optimissie

I once wrote a diary. When I read it now, it seems childish. Then I wrote a book blog. When I read that now, it seems childish too. See a pattern? I write for a living, and so I've almost stopped writing for myself. The editor who's taken up permanent residence in my head, often strangles my words and ideas at birth. So am I an optimist as the title suggests? I don't know and I don't think I'll be any the wiser by blogging, but I do know one thing - I love beauty - in ideas, in words, in buildings, in art, in science, in clothes, in cats, in make up. Fortunately, even though my pores are on display in the profile picture, this is not going to be an up-close-and-personal, warts all take on my life. In fact, I'm not sure what it is going to be!

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