One of those busy days at work. I had a task to work on that, while not that difficult, was very time consuming, gobbling up the better part of my work day.
The new issue of Frank Magazine is up. I have about 4 pages in it: my media column takes up nearly 2 full pages; my true crime column takes up nearly a page and a half; and I have a page of content about the Information Morning birthday party from this past Friday. Plus, two of the four letters in this issue were about my true crime column from last issue, taking up nearly another half page. Plus, I was honoured to see that my true crime column merited a strong mention on the cover of the metro cover. I don't know if they will be on the alternative/other parts of the province covers.
I have been making my copious notes for both of my columns in a simple, even humble, Hilroy coiled notebook, courtesy of a Staples back-to-school sale in 2014, when they were literally 5 cents apiece. I bought several of them, and have been filling one up at a time ever since. But I am taking so many notes about some of these true crime cases that I think that maybe a binder with looseleaf might be a better approach. I get that I should be keeping all this stuff online, but there are times when I am without an internet connection and have to go old school. That means picking up a pen, preferably one with blue ink, and affixing the business end of it to a piece of paper and writing in a mock cursive format.
I recently found samples of my handwriting from when I was in high school. Teachers would rail at me about how poor my handwriting was. It got worse, far worse, in university. In order to take notes, and lacking any knowledge of shorthand, I just wrote as fast as I could, leaving out letters, and replacing "ing's" with a simple squiggle. When I went back to re-read it, sometimes weeks later, I would have to figure out the words from the context, and I was mostly successful with it. Nobody else was.
People would occasionally ask to borrow my notes, because I seldom missed a class and was always writing furiously. Nobody ever asked me more than once. One guy figured out I meant "secondary" because I had written "2nddary", and I wish I could have given him a gold star, only I was too busy taking more notes.
And then there was the girl in my 1986 Fantasy course who I figured out, far too late, had a crush on me. In an attempt to get me to notice her, because her sitting behind me burning a hole in my back with her stare wasn't working, she borrowed my notes and then called me at home to get me to "read" them to her. I attempted to do so, rang off, and collected my notes the next day. My goodness, I was a stunned hombre back then. I mean, any time a girl sits behind you in class for a couple of months and burns a hole in the back of your head with her stare, and borrows your notes and then calls you to help her decipher them, then that's a sign, brother. That's a sign.
While we're on this silly topic, can you think of a time when a person tried to get your attention, and you were just too stunned to notice? I can't be the only one. Can I? Well, can I?
Anyway, I may transfer my notes from that Hilroy notebook with the coils, to an actual binder. Let's move up in the world, says I. It can't hurt.
Nearly 10pm now. I think I will turn in.
You have a good day. See you tomorrow.