I love to be reminded of why I write longhand.
I am two pages away from filling the current notebook. This means an(other) entire notebook filled with my words. It’s a total rush.
There is something about smoothing my hand over the page and feeling the impressions of the pen on the paper. The handwriting identifies it as mine in a visceral, tangible way. Holding my manuscript, still hot from the printer, is similarly satisfying, but not nearly so intense.
Not to worry: I’ll be cursing this odd quirk of mine when it comes to the transcription.
But in the meantime, I will luxuriate in the curling, feathered edges of pages, the growing rip in the binding, the coffee stains and ink splotches. This notebook is marked by every trip it’s taken in my bag, every spot where I’ve stolen a few moments to jot down a word, or a thought, or a phrase, and every person who’s smiled at the cover quote: “There is a certain happiness in being silly and ridiculous.”
My biggest dilemma now is starting the next notebook. Which should I choose?
You see, I made the mistake of going notebook shopping. Specifically notebook shopping. My tendency to pick them up as I see ones that interest me and live up to my exacting standards is much safer by comparison for both my wallet and storage space.