I love spiral-bound notebooks. I love the smell and the weight of them. The light blue lines with the red margins. The cover patterns. I love choosing new ones at the drugstore.
On a bookshelf in my hallway, there’s a line-up of notebooks full of stories and scribbles. I can’t throw them away. What if I one day remember a rant I wrote about the need for better toilet seat design in public bathrooms and I NEED to use some of those sentences? Or, what if my descendants want to auction my memorabilia for millions of dollars? (Oh, shush. There’s no need to laugh that hard.)
Ever since I got my laptop, though, I’ve been using my notebook less and less. Random thoughts now go straight to twitter. Random rants to the blog. Coffee-shop writing is done hunkered in front of the screen.
It’s good, really. Except for when I open THAT DRAWER in my bedroom. The one where my most recent notebook sits. Every time that happens, I feel as if I cheated on a boyfriend, then left him unexpectedly, and I’ve just run into him at the supermarket.
Ouch. Sorry, dude…