Leaving Marks

This morning I read from Beth Kephart's Handling the Truth, with my lunch bag shifting at my feet as the 57 bus roared forward with the harried determination of a 64. 

I am not, or have never been, the type of person that marked up books. Something inside me always says, "This isn't yours to keep. Maybe you have to give it back to someone, or maybe you have to give it forward to someone, but this book isn't yours to mark up."

But today, I told that voice, "No, this book is mine, gloriously mine."

It is now, from this moment on, that I will be unafraid to leave a trail of impressions and thoughts within the pages of my books. If I'm going to learn and grow, and form my own style and voice, I need to be keeping a record of what resonates with me, what sounds and patterns and thoughts knock the wind out of me, puzzle me, and challenge the writer I am. 

I took a highlighter out of my bag, and in bright pink, I called attention-forever to a line from a bell hooks excerpt: The events described are always less significant than the impressions they leave on the mind and heart.