The earliest known paper is believed to date back to 200 BCE; however, it did not gain widespread use in Europe until the 1100s CE. So, even something as old as paper is less than a thousand years old. I suppose the creation of paper, too, much like writing a story, was a series of starts and stops, trials and errors.

Yesterday, I wrote four letters, about twelve pages in total, to my family. It felt like something had been accomplished. As I type this out digitally, it’s hard to know if I’m making the same kind of progress as the kind of progress I make on paper. Perhaps the only thing that compares is the next evolution of writing things on paper—that long-forgotten tool, the typewriter, with its "thwack-wack-crack" of the keys. There was a kind of music to typing back then that barely registers now. And now, with voice typing, I wonder if even the soft typing of modern keyboards will survive.

There was a time in high school when I was worried about poverty. I feared that life would deal me a bad hand. Through no fault of my own, my chances for my ideal life would be taken away from me. There was an idea that comforted me—that no matter how poor I got, I could at least afford a notebook. If I could manage to buy a notebook, a pencil, or perhaps even a few pens, I could pursue my dream of becoming a writer, even if only in a small way. My marketing could be as simple as giving my notebook away to strangers on the streets. Life doesn't have to be complicated; it can be as simple as putting pen to paper. What's important is that the humanity comes out in the process. 

In the process of finding paper, I’m also revisiting some of those earlier parts of my life, pre-computer, when I lived in worlds of paperbacks and notebooks. Later, when I became an adult, taking care of my mom, I unearthed many of these early short stories, some written in hardback composition notebooks. I read the stories one more time and then threw them out. Now, I wish I would have found an “audience” for them. Does such an audience exist? The thought intrigues me. I don’t think I would ever read or keep a hand-written story from a writer, no matter how much I admired the person. Still, I think there must be someone out there—a patron that will value my frivolous paper works. 

As I was writing in my paper journal, I came upon a dilemma. I suddenly realized that I wanted to write an essay entitled “Deep Rest,” a deep dive into various traumas of the last year, my increasing loneliness, and my sudden desire for near-term nostalgia. But then, I realized how complex this essay might be and how I would probably need to be written digitally. Nevertheless, I found myself writing the initial notes out in a letter to my brother. It began with recent celebrities getting cancer and then led to my own memories of an acquaintance who was three years younger than me and had died of cancer… I realized that good writing is like bleeding truth, and the most pure way to bleed truth is to actually sit and watch as the ink comes out on the page. 

Let us take a detour, dear reader, into unknown territory. Yesterday, I went to one of my favorite places, Mogi-machi in Nagasaki, and walked along the bay with my thoughts. Occasionally, I would write them down in my journal, as I usually did, but sometimes I would let them just linger in my mind, as if my own mind-space were a kind of paper, too. The fresh air and sunshine seemed something so pure and personal that I didn’t even think to share it with the piece of paper. Perhaps that scares me a little bit: the idea that my writing is becoming more internal, more focused on my own self, my body, and my experiences. I wonder if, when I begin to write too much for myself, I lose the ability to write to others. It’s an interesting thought.

As a counterpoint, I remember certain comedians — I want to say Kevin Hart — talking about how they didn’t start to become good stand-up comics until they started talking about very personal things. So perhaps this detour into my own mind, into written things, is a way for me to grow into a more personal writer who is comfortable sharing his innermost self with the world.

A last thought. I also find great joy in shredding paper. I feel like the red tape of life often accumulates in the debris of useless paper. I find great joy in watching modern machinery destroy it. Of course, the greatest joy is when bureau-slop is used for scrap paper that then becomes the source of inspired writing. The fact that I am writing this essay on a computer depresses me slightly…and for that reason, I rush away from my keyboard to that old refuge, that old friend, a blank piece of paper—where adventures are boundless.