Handwritten.

“We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Years Day.” – Edith Lovejoy Pierce

I read this quote over on Positively Present, and fell in love. Partly because it was uttered by a woman whose middle name is Lovejoy, but mostly because it reminded me of writing. Not writing in the sense that I’m sitting in front of my computer screen, clinking on the keyboard, tapping out a story that’s easily deleted, recovered, re-written. Not writing in the way of powering up my iPhone and sliding my fingers across the letters to send a text message, email, tweet. Not that kind of writing.

No, I’m talking about writing deliberately, with intention.

I’m talking about curling up on the couch, with no noise other than the city sounds from down below, using the ribbon bookmark to open to the last handwritten page in my journal, and putting actual pen to actual paper.

I wrote in my Holiday post that the number one goal I want to achieve in 2011 is to slow down. Well, let me tell you, sitting down and emptying my brain into my pen and crafting it out onto paper is anything but fast-paced. I wrote how I want to send letters and cards instead of just emails and texts — because, frankly, they mean more. They’re deliberate. Not rushed, or half-thought-out, or littered with acronyms used to abbreviate.

Our lives are plastered all over the Internet (if we choose to do so, like I have). Chances are, you can tell where I am, what I’m doing and what kind of mood I’m in just by reading my Twitter or Facebook. But, the truth is, these status updates, photo uploads, wall posts, tags, are only a fragment of the narrative. I’m not even sure I could use them to piece together an somewhat-encompassing autobiography. And if you’re anything like me, these snippets might be skewed or edited keeping your audience in mind.

I’ve always believed that pouring yourself into a handwritten journal is the best way to honestly reflect. There’s no “delete” button. You can’t read over the latest entry and edit or remove the not-so-pretty parts. Handwritten journals are free, less self-conscious, and full of everything we’ve ever wanted to say, but may not have been able to otherwise.

For me, writing is my therapy. If I’m having a bad day, week, month, I write my way out of it. My completely uninhibited scrawling empties my mind of clutter, mess, negativity. I write when I’m happy, too. Logging the exciting changes, learnings, findings, of all my adventures. When I write in my journal, I’m not worried about whether my feelings are silly or unwarranted; no matter what I feel, it  deserves an entry in my journal. I’m not afraid to be judged by my feelings because no one has to read my journal. Not even me.

If I do choose to flip through the old pages (I have eight volumes of handwritten journals), which I do sometimes, the pages have an eery way of bringing you right back to where you were and helping you realize how much you’ve grown and learned since then.

Your life makes for an incredible story. A chronology that doesn’t just have to exist on the interwebs. A history that you and your closest can hold in your hands and see the scribbles, doodles, truths.

How do you write your story?