I do not need another notebook.
Let’s start there. With honesty.
There are at least four within arm’s reach of where I’m sitting right now. One is for when my pre-writing free-writing feels like it should be on paper. One for mood notes, that are sometimes emotional ranting, sometimes something that borders on poetry. One that lives in my back pocket, even when I’m at home, and one that I’m apparently too afraid to write in because it’s “too nice.” Which means I’ve bought a notebook specifically not to use it. Which is a level of unhinged that deserves quiet reflection.
And yet.
Every time I see a perfectly weighted hardcover with creamy paper and a soft grid layout, something in me lights up. Not in a casual way. In a “this will fix me” way. A “this one will be different” way.
Writers like to pretend we’re all about the words, but many of us are just emotionally unstable dragons hoarding paper. Fancy paper. Soft paper. Paper that suggests we might become the best version of ourselves if we just pick the right pen.
It’s not just notebooks, of course. It’s pens that feel slightly too heavy. Fountain pens from AliExpress with interesting shapes and a range of coloured inks to go into them. Mechanical pencils with pretentious design philosophies. Sticky notes in shades that could be described as “moody” or “aesthetic.” For me, that’s black, even thought I had to buy a stock of white pens to use them with.
Did I mention that I have black index cards as well?
I’ve written full drafts of stories in scrappy, 70c notebooks (I have a stack of those, filled with notes and ideas and journals and free writing) and yet some part of me remains convinced that the right tools will unlock something fundamental in my brain. Like I’ve been running the wrong firmware, and a new Leuchtturm will patch the issue.
And you know what?
Sometimes, it DOES work.
When the words aren’t flowing on the screen, sometimes switching to pen and paper will help them to come. If pen in’t working, maybe pencil will; there’s something about the impermanence of pencil that lets me be more OK with writing something I know is wrong.
Notes? While I’m writing? Scribbled half thoughts and doodles, they’re on yellow legal pad, and I have no idea why that works for me better than any other stationery I’ve found.
Oh, I have a little whiteboard on my desk too.
Here’s the thing though:
Do I need another notebook?
No.
Am I getting one anyway?
…Actually, no. Not right now.
Not this time.
But I will again.
Soon.
I know that a new notebook, a new pen, a new pencil or whatever won’t fix anything that’s broken.
But…
A new notebook is hope.
It could become anything.
It’s promise.
It’s potential.
Potential that I hope to realise.