Packing Light, Carrying Words: A Writer’s Journey With the reMarkable Paper Pro
by Rossy Lima
I have always packed too many books when I travel.
Before every journey, I stare at the spines lined up on my shelf, trying to choose which ones will come with me. My own books—my work, my voice—are essential for my presentations, but there is never enough space. Then, there’s the notebook, the one I carry like a second heartbeat, the one that absorbs stray verses mid-flight or borrowed lines overheard in passing. And of course, the laptop, that heavy, humming anchor of modern writing.
But this time, the weight was not an option.
I was heading to the Puerto Rican International Poetry Festival, my suitcase already filled with the essentials—clothes for humid streets and changing weather, personal items, shoes. Books, notebooks, the familiar weight of my tools? They had to stay behind.
That’s when I found a different way to carry them.
A slate no thicker than a few pages, no brighter than the hush of an overcast morning. The reMarkable Paper Pro. A digital page that does not demand, that does not glow or buzz. A quiet companion that let me create a folder with my poetry books, my manuscripts, and the words I wasn’t ready to leave behind.
With a few taps, I transferred everything—effortlessly—from my computer, from my phone. No cables, no complications. My books, my drafts, my unfinished thoughts—all there, waiting.
When the plane took off, when the world shrank beneath me and the sky stretched wide, I continued reading my pdf of The Spirit of Hope by Byung Chal Han. No distractions, no blinking messages, no restless tabs waiting to steal my attention. Just words, still and steady, waiting to be met again.
In a journey where I could take almost nothing, I carried everything that mattered.
When I arrived in Puerto Rico, the festival’s program included two presentations a day for five days, unique spaces where words had to meet their moment. Each venue carried its own energy—some intimate and hushed, others alive with the pulse of voices. The last thing I wanted was to fumble through pages, searching for the right poem while the silence between me and the audience stretched too long.
With the reMarkable Paper Pro, I built each reading with intention. Before stepping onto a stage, I created a document just for that moment, gathering poems like an artist selecting colors for a canvas. A simple copy and paste from my stored books, a title to mark the occasion, and there it was—my reading, curated, prepared. No frantic flipping through pages, no wondering if I had skipped over the poem I wanted to share the most.
And when it was time for gratitude, I found another unexpected gift. Between readings, I wrote thank-you notes—small, precise gestures that held the details of the people I met, the conversations I wanted to remember. With the stylus in hand, it felt as natural as writing on paper, but with the ease of organizing it all in one place. No loose scraps, no rushed scribbles on the backs of programs—just words set down with care, exactly where I needed them.
What I did not expect was how this tablet would extend my library beyond my own books.
At every festival, there is an unspoken ritual: writers exchange their works, gifting each other pages that will travel beyond the borders of the event. But here, in Puerto Rico poets ran out of copies, their books gone before they could pass them into the hands of every reader who wanted them.
So instead of leaving empty-handed, we adapted.
Before every journey, I stare at the spines lined up on my shelf, trying to choose which ones will come with me. My own books—my work, my voice—are essential for my presentations, but there is never enough space. Then, there’s the notebook, the one I carry like a second heartbeat, the one that absorbs stray verses mid-flight or borrowed lines overheard in passing. And of course, the laptop, that heavy, humming anchor of modern writing.
But this time, the weight was not an option.
I was heading to the Puerto Rican International Poetry Festival, my suitcase already filled with the essentials—clothes for humid streets and changing weather, personal items, shoes. Books, notebooks, the familiar weight of my tools? They had to stay behind.
That’s when I found a different way to carry them.
A slate no thicker than a few pages, no brighter than the hush of an overcast morning. The reMarkable Paper Pro. A digital page that does not demand, that does not glow or buzz. A quiet companion that let me create a folder with my poetry books, my manuscripts, and the words I wasn’t ready to leave behind.
With a few taps, I transferred everything—effortlessly—from my computer, from my phone. No cables, no complications. My books, my drafts, my unfinished thoughts—all there, waiting.
When the plane took off, when the world shrank beneath me and the sky stretched wide, I continued reading my pdf of The Spirit of Hope by Byung Chal Han. No distractions, no blinking messages, no restless tabs waiting to steal my attention. Just words, still and steady, waiting to be met again.
In a journey where I could take almost nothing, I carried everything that mattered.
When I arrived in Puerto Rico, the festival’s program included two presentations a day for five days, unique spaces where words had to meet their moment. Each venue carried its own energy—some intimate and hushed, others alive with the pulse of voices. The last thing I wanted was to fumble through pages, searching for the right poem while the silence between me and the audience stretched too long.
With the reMarkable Paper Pro, I built each reading with intention. Before stepping onto a stage, I created a document just for that moment, gathering poems like an artist selecting colors for a canvas. A simple copy and paste from my stored books, a title to mark the occasion, and there it was—my reading, curated, prepared. No frantic flipping through pages, no wondering if I had skipped over the poem I wanted to share the most.
And when it was time for gratitude, I found another unexpected gift. Between readings, I wrote thank-you notes—small, precise gestures that held the details of the people I met, the conversations I wanted to remember. With the stylus in hand, it felt as natural as writing on paper, but with the ease of organizing it all in one place. No loose scraps, no rushed scribbles on the backs of programs—just words set down with care, exactly where I needed them.
What I did not expect was how this tablet would extend my library beyond my own books.
At every festival, there is an unspoken ritual: writers exchange their works, gifting each other pages that will travel beyond the borders of the event. But here, in Puerto Rico poets ran out of copies, their books gone before they could pass them into the hands of every reader who wanted them.
So instead of leaving empty-handed, we adapted.
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With a quick message or an email, they sent me their books in PDF form, and in moments, I added them to my collection. No weight, no struggle—only words, received and preserved. My library grew in real-time, filling with the voices of Latin American poets who, like me, had carried only what they could.
To my surprise, it was in the quiet spaces between readings that I truly felt the presence of this tablet as a writer’s companion. The stylus glided, not on glass, not on something cold or artificial, but on a surface that felt like paper, like something that wanted to hold my thoughts. The fountain pen setting in magenta became my favorite—fluid, effortless, a splash of color against the soft gray. I wrote down verses before they disappeared. I jotted down thoughts sparked by a line someone else had read. I left behind notes like footprints, a trail of words that would lead me back to the feeling of this journey long after I had returned home. Traveling light has always been a necessity, but it does not have to mean traveling empty. The reMarkable Paper Pro was more than a tool—it was a space for my words to exist freely, unburdened by weight, untethered from distraction. It carried my books, my manuscripts, my fleeting inspirations. It gave me the chance to receive poetry when paper was scarce, to organize my voice when the stage demanded precision, to write when the moment called for ink. In the end, it was not just a device—it was a writer’s silent companion, present in every space, waiting only for the next word to be written. |
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