Pieces of Candy

Sometimes, I wish I had a friend in the paper products business. It would be so much easier. Now, when I say paper products, I don't mean the towel, napkin, and plate variety. What I'm talking about is writing paper. Most specifically, notebooks.

For me, and perhaps other writers, a new notebook provides the chance to portage across virgin landscapes like Lewis and Clark or make like Amerigo Vespucci and chart the inlets of a new world. Yes, the chance to write in a brand new notebook is like unwrapping the first piece of candy from a bag of treats you haven't thought about in years, but rediscovered in an out-of-the-way candy shop.

And like the proverbial kid in the candy shop, I stand in the NOTEBOOKS, WRITING TABLETS, AND LEDGERS section of the office supply store desperately trying to choose among the multitudes of possibilities. I do the same thing with pens, but that's a story for another day.

You see, grabbing a simple, generic spiral notebook will. not. do. I have on occasion had to settle for one when an idea has me by the earlobe but only because desperate times call for desperate measures. Most of the time, however choosing a new notebook is an arduous task.

Firstly, I have to break the first literary cardinal rule and judge a book by its cover. It has to be pleasing to me color-wise, theme-wise, or just-because-wise. My friends will tell you that I am in no way a linear thinker so "just-because-wise" usually wins out.

I have never and will never purchase a notebook that has been prelabeled as a JOURNAL or a DIARY, because I feel it's presumtuous to tell the notebook what it should be and because I do. not. journal. Journaling feels ike penmanship practice. Writing for writings sake. Not to say that that free writing doesn't have value, it's just that I prefer to wait for my muse to come to me rather than chasing her down the sidewalk with a butterfly net.

I have been gifted with, but will not purchase, leatherbound or fabric covered notebooks. Those feel too concrete. I need to feel okay about ripping frustrating pages out and notebooks like these feel too much like a book. Ripping pages out would be a sin. In addition, these notebooks are generally so beautiful that only perfect and finished things should go in them. Nothing I ever write is either perfect or finished. But let's continue on, shall we?

Once I have a handful of options in the "it just looks good" department, the lines of the pages come into play. My notebooks must have lines. A lineless notebook constitutes a sketchbook and requires a completely different set of criteria.

The lines must be blue or black and the pages must not have any graphics or pictures or words. Graphics, pictures, words and oddly colored lines are too distracting. They must also be a certain distance apart. Narrow enough to feel like I've got something of substance going and wide enough to encompass my fluid writing style and my penchant for inserting lines above or below a thought that I want to revisit.

Okay, looks good...good lines...now we come to the overall durability. Will it survive my lifestyle? Will it be okay if I toss it in the back seat, shove it in a bag, or spill coffee all over it? Do the pages themselves have enough substance to withstand the multiple scratchouts of a felt-tip pen? These are questions that need answers before I commit.

So. It comes to this. A spiral-bound tablet of paper with blue lines of a tolerable width and a brown, orange, and pink striped cover of hardy cardstock. It has 80 virgin sheets on which to savor the aforementioned rediscovered treats.

Pardon me while I unwrap the first piece