Are you like me? Do you own beautiful notebooks, but refuse to write in them? You know the kind. They’re sold at Anthropologie and Papyrus. The covers look like white marble or golden granite. They cost at least sixteen dollars. I pulled one out of my closet the other day. White roses and green leaves decorated the cover. The backdrop was of the pearliest pink. Gorgeous! So why are its 150 perfectly perforated pages collecting dust in my closet? Why do I keep purchasing cheap pads of paper instead of writing in this beautiful notebook?
For starters, notebooks like these deserve elegant handwriting. Swirly letters that flow like long black ribbons. Not the jumbled, mismatched mess that is my handwriting.
Handwriting aside, what would I write? I could write about my travels, but then I would actually have to go somewhere. I could write down my dreams, but I’m usually too groggy in the morning to remember them. I suppose I could go to a posh little cafe (Do these even exist?) and write elegant observations about the chicly dressed people walking by (Do these even exist?). I could learn poetry and turn the notebook into a book of poems. Write a perfect novel and then write it again in the fancy notebook?
I have no real answers, but stuff it unwritten back in my closet I shall not! So off I go to write something, anything in my fancy notebook. I’m going to sit back and relax and destroy it. Make a mess of this pretty notebook. Out with the simple, no-stress Mead. In with the cursive-only Bando.
