The opening page of a fresh notebook is a heady mix of new stationery
aroma and possibilities, I get caught up in the ceremony of putting pen to
paper and setting the tone for any scribbles to follow, so much so that there
are several notebooks in my stash yet to receive a maiden scrawl. I’m waiting
for a worthy and perfect thought or idea to strike, you see. The longer I wait, the bigger the
expectation grows until eventually I feel as though even Shakespeare would be
hard pushed to do justice in kicking off proceedings and therein lies the
trap. It is around this time that
I’ll start crooning over other notebooks while out and about: cover fondling,
page sniffing (I’ve become accustomed to the peculiar looks this earns me),
flicking through pages and testing their weight in my hand. After a suitable period of
procrastination I’ll inevitably find myself lured into a stationers by
necessity – paperclips, glue or pens are the main culprits – and instead be
seduced by the siren song of notebook adventure. When it comes to notebooks I am powerless against the rush,
all self control exits stage left.
That isn’t to say I
have dozens of them lying empty around my house, the great thing about being a
notebook hoarder is that once you have a couple of newer editions the older
crop start to look more accessible and before I know it I’m halfway through the
ornate purple number with the cream lined pages and heavy magnetic clasp. Gifted notebooks upset the cycle
completely, instead of the need to be worthy of the first page I tend to write
in them almost immediately with whatever is on my mind that day – these turn
into journals or inspiration books, full of daily-life stuff and pictures torn
from magazines of whatever makes my heart flutter. Regardless of the rest there is always one constant
slow-burner, a notebook with an added degree of special to me that I want to
take my time filling and keep for life, this one was a gift from Tristan a
few years ago and is all heavy marble-edged paper with a beautiful deep red leather
binding. The smell is out of this world.
I once knew a person
who had a dozen identical notebooks, one per year, filled at the rate of a page
per day and shelved together when completed, from an interior design standpoint
it looked good, but somehow it made me sad. For me, part of the joy in having a little library of
notebooks at my fingertips is the way I can grab whichever takes my fancy when
I’m struck with inspiration while I can’t sleep at night, and the unpredictable
journey each notebook takes – I’ll write pages upon pages of thoughts or
stories - then my next entry could be weeks later about a recipe I’m
experimenting with. There’s a
certain kind of magic about the rainbow of spines in a varied stack of
notebooks too – all different sizes and textures and each with their own story
to tell, which never turns out to be quite the plot you think it will at the
beginning. I like to pick and mix
– some of mine are pastel and pretty, some are fabric covered and tactile
whereas others wouldn’t look out of place in the Hogwarts library.
Whatever your taste
there will always be a notebook that fits and sometimes, the very special ones,
find you.
