As I sit, slightly overwhelmed with the amount of work life has thrust upon me, I think myself lucky to own a set of notebooks.
And by a set I don’t mean two or three. It mean thirty or fourty.
Quotes, the authors of which I sometimes fail to write down; Latin phrases that allow me to appear slightly more educated; lists that I lose three hours into the day of the days’ tasks; sketches and drawings from the times where I find myself somewhat distracted, bored even; story ideas that I cannot bear to part with but have no use for. My notebooks are like the creative section of my brain written down on paper.
I fill them day by day, sometimes spending hours reading through them. I fill them because I must. A journal of inspiration; a way to remember the memories I never want to forget; my escape as a writer.
Each of my notebooks speaks of limitless potential. Usually beginning with a specific use for each notebook, in reality most of the notebooks fall into a category of miscellaneous notes. That is due to my poor organisation skills which I could never part with, although they contradict with my love of notebooks and lists.
Red, blue, black. Spiral bound. Patterned cover, plain. Ruled, unruled. Seventy pages, thirty pages, two hundred pages. Untouched, tempting me to write on the first page. Unpractically big, tiny. Decorated, scribbled in; a map of my mind. These notebooks lay scattered around my bedroom, hidden in boxes and bags and awaiting my enthralled response upon rediscovering them, some still vacant, some over-used and falling apart. I think that notebooks can provide you with the ultimate source of inspiration; the most wonderful way to reminisce.