I love this journal. Love, love, LOVE it! Best gift ever!
There, I finally wrote something inside it, and a little part of me is already regretting defacing its pristine pages. What could I write in here that’s significant enough to justify its inclusion? Even so, I still feel like a character in a Jane Austen novel. It’s so much cooler than all those electronic diaries online. You can actually pick this up, touch and hold it. It feels real.
And it has a lock. A small but sturdy little clasp with a key only I get to keep, which is just as well, because I don’t intend to waste any of these precious pages on bullshit. This journal will hold the real and honest thoughts of Alice Teale or it will contain nothing at all, so you’d better not piss me off or you’ll end up in here. Hah! This is my sacred place, to be filled with secrets but no lies.
I’ll put my story ideas down in here, too, then I can work on them so they don’t just swirl endlessly round and round in my head, going nowhere. I WILL be an author one day, and I am going to look back and say this was where it all began. They say that truth is stranger than fiction, and I won’t have to look far for inspiration around here.
I love the cover! It’s leather, I think, and I should probably care that some animal has died for me, but I don’t because it smells amazing.
And it has my name written through it, printed on every page. Love it!
Thanks for this, bro.
I love you, too.