The Writing Compendium

I’m not someone who accumulates much. In fact, I’ve come to want less, not more. Rather than shape my life around possessions, I’d rather shape my life to need less.

And yet, the belongings I do hold onto tend to carry meaning. They’re not just useful—they’re threads in a larger story.

One that comes to mind is a leather writing case. It was a birthday gift—or more precisely, bought with a generous voucher from my aunt and uncle. They didn’t choose it, but I still think of them every time I use it.

My aunt passed away twenty years ago. Not long after, I officiated her daughter’s wedding. Though my aunt was no longer with us, her presence lingered—woven into the speeches, the memories, and the stories shared that day. My uncle now lives in a nursing home, his world narrowed by dementia, but my memories of them remain wide and warm.

They were good to me when I was a child. I was shy, sensitive—one of those quiet kids who could easily be overlooked. But they noticed me. They took me on occasional outings. Took an interest. That interest stayed with me.

The writing case has too.

I used it when I was working on short stories—week after week, finding a quiet spot by the ocean and writing for a few hours. Some of those drafts became finished pieces. It was a restorative rhythm: unhurried, creative, alive.

Later, I used that same case every day while writing my doctorate. I’d retreat to a quiet corner of the library and try to get what I was thinking onto paper. It was an intense time—grappling with big questions, constantly negotiating with my inner critic. That case became a steady companion. Always there. Familiar. Patient.

So what do I hold most dear?

Ideas, not things.
Experiences, not possessions.
People, not property.
Learning, not ignorance.
Creativity, not acceptance.

And somehow, that leather writing case carries all of those things. It’s not valuable in any monetary sense. But in its worn edges and familiar feel, it holds memory, imagination, and the quiet, steady work of becoming.

What I Carry

I do not cling to things.
But I carry this.
Not for its leather,
but for its living.

A leather writing case—
stitched with memory,
quiet as the ones who gave it.

It remembers
the ocean view
and blank pages.
The slow forming of story,
the wrestle of thought
into language.

It remembers
the long library hours,
where every sentence
felt like excavation,
where I fought doubt
with pen and persistence.

It is not the object I hold,
but what it holds for me:
people who paid attention,
pages that changed me,
moments that made me.