The smell of leather; crisp, white pages; an unbroken spine; a new notebook, Spring is here and so is the possibility of a new love.
There are many discussions about the creative process, the common argument being typed vs. handwritten. I recently read a very interesting post by a young writer, boy with a hat, who suggests that the act of writing on paper is far more intimate than typing. I have to agree with this.
It’s Spring, the season for cleaning, starting afresh, beginning new projects, finding new love, rekindling old flames… I’m currently rekindling my love for notebooks. I’ve neglected this relationship for sometime now. I have not been devoting as much time to my writing as I’d like and so it is time to reignite my passion.
There is something exquisite about starting a new notebook. Some of the notebooks pictured above have yet to have the pen glide across the page but I can’t wait for that moment. It’s like the first day of school, the brand new exercise book- pure; the brand new pen- full. It’s that nervous excitement of putting pen to that first page. Or that first kiss, you know it’s going to happen but what will be like? It’s the anticipation and intimacy of the act, this is why I love beginning a new notebook.
It was in my ridiculous attempt at Spring cleaning ( ridiculous simply because when I start tidying I get distracted, as is evident from this post) that I found my latest notebook and that got me thinking about my obsession and the way I use them. It seems that my notebook using correlates to the way my thoughts flow in my head- chaotic!
The yellow one at the bottom of the pile (in the photo above) is the one that’s most used. It’s definitely an old flame, the one I keep returning to. The pages are filled with half written stories, and stories that are interrupted by my new waves of inspiration. There are short stories, old stories and kidlit stories scattered throughout the pages. It makes sense to me, but anyone else who should flick through the pages would be left feeling confused. But, I wouldn’t have anyone else flicking through the pages of my notebooks, it’s far too intimate. The stories aren’t polished, they are merely a collection of words waiting to be shaped and moulded in to something else, something with the possibility of becoming more than simply a word in a notebook.
This is the beginning of the relationship, the early stage that cannot be rushed but must be revealed, slowly…