For me, the way I record thoughts has always been dependent on how I judged those thoughts. If I’m writing a sloppy draft of a story that’s been bouncing around my head, or a school assignment (definitely don’t like most of those), or something else quick and unrefined, I will type it on the computer. There is nothing personal about a computer (ironic because that’s exactly what laptops are – personal computers); you cannot see the author’s handwriting, the force with which they pushed the pencil to the paper, or the doodle marks in the corners where he or she lost attention. So I have no problem writing things that mean little to me on my computer. I think this has a lot to do with why I’m not a huge fan of blogs or blogging – I can never really get myself to connect as well as I know I could if I was physically writing out my thoughts. For thoughts I’m slightly more interested in, I’ll dig up my notebook. A plain, spiral bound notebook – the same one in which I record my class notes. I doodle a lot there, and write out short passages of things that I have been writing in my head for a while. I’ve found myself on more than one occasion bored in class and doodling out song titles or lyrics on a blank page. Next, I have several pretty notebooks that I’ve acquired over the years. One from Kate Spade, one from India, and one beaded from an art fair that, despite being in my possession since the second grade, remains mostly blank. Most of the writing in those books is not my own; I love quotes, and will record my favorites here. I find these quotes all different places. Finally, if I feel what I am or someone else has written is beautiful, transcendental, perfectly sad, or some other level of unconventional and unique, I will record it on my typewriter. I received this 100-year-old relic for my 17th birthday. It is in perfect condition and is one of my most treasured possessions. I love the way the words look, slightly tilted and old-fashioned, and I will save only what I love the most to be recorded thusly. I store what I write here in a purple-handled box, covered in magazine clippings of flowers that I made when I was eight.