I have a notebook problem. I’m not sure if it’s a common problem amongst all writers these days, especially given how popular tech has become. I love notebooks. I’ve got a stockpile of notebooks and pens to go with them. If I’m feeling sad or bored or lonely or happy or …anything really…while I’m walking through a store with notebooks? I buy one. I love the cheap Steno notebooks best, the ones with the black binding and the college rule? I’m not even really sure what college rule is, but I love them. Love any notebook.
I love a clean page. A clean page begs for a good pen, and I collect those too, consider them and choose them with more care than a mother does winter clothes for a new born on the twilight side of the arctic circle. My personal favorite are gel pens or any good pen that actually has real ink in it…a tube of ink versus a stingy little cylinder of something pretending to be ink. I want my ink to glisten on the page. I love the second before my pen touches the page and every possibility in the world is open for it.
I love a full notebook just as much as a spotless one. There’s a peculiar sense of accomplishment that comes with filling a notebook. Dotting that last period at the very end. I can look at a full notebook and think to myself, even if I never accomplish another thing in my life, or any great thing at all, at least I filled this notebook with my words. And that’s something I just can get from looking at a large compute file. There’s something visceral about words on paper that I will always love. The cursive script dancing along the pages is art. It’s beauty. It’s the same reason I have to buy all of the books from the favorite authors in paperback. I need to be able to see the words. Touch the words. Breathe them in.
Anyway, I have a notebook problem.