They don’t have to be fancy. They don’t have to be lined. They just need to be small enough to fit in my purse, and light enough that they don’t weigh me down.
This is harder to find than you would think (and I say this as a resident of The Land of Malls, so I know something about shopping). Most notebooks are too big, too solid, too thick. I have no idea what they’re meant for. Dear Diaries? Because they’re missing the easily breakable locks.
Most annoying is when I find one exactly the right size and shape, and it’s an address book. I don’t need an address book. And I don’t like having the purpose of the notebook determined for me. (Also: Who still uses address books? Is it an old-fashioned affectation, like a handlebar mustache? Really, just curious.)
I need a tiny notebook so I can write. Because there is no perfect time for writing. There is no extended stretch of time in a day to lean back and ponder what I shall write, how I shall write it, thinking Big Thoughts about the work that I am leisurely progressing on. There is no leisure. There is a brief opportunity, and there is a tiny, discreet notebook.
I sit on the floor and write during my son’s karate class. I scribble out some lines before bed. Makeup and a notebook. Tea and a notebook. A writer writes. More to the point: A writer writes by any means necessary.
It’s amazing how easy it is to tune out the world, when you’re absorbed in the next word, and you don’t care what you look like, you and your notebook.
My son has taken a liking to my most recent notebook — filled, unfortunately, and I’m in search of a new one. He wants a notebook of his own. He says he’s going to use it during time outs, so he can write down what he did wrong, and what he should do instead. I think it’s a good idea, though I can’t swear he’d follow through on it.
Even so, the next time I find a tiny notebook, I’m buying two.