I know it is out there somewhere: eight and half by eleven, only half an inch thick, wide ruled, hard cover, spiral, with a pocket for all the scraps of napkins, receipts, tickets, important memos and other idea-scrawled detritus that must be collected and kept safe. Somewhere out there, is the elusive notebook that I need to buy before this next novel takes too much shape, breathes too many breaths and runs away from me without having been coaxed down into words.
I am a notebook-writer. While, yes, I am up to date on the 21st century (I can tweet! I can face-space! I can even blog, right?!), there is still something delicious about putting pen to paper and watching the ink flow, feeling the cramp in your hand as your body tries to keep up with your mind, and then flinging the pen down, hearing the finality at the end of the thought. Maybe it's about conquering the blank space, maybe it's about giving birth to ideas, maybe it's just nostalgia.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I write out my manuscripts by hand. I type away on my tiny laptop, same as the rest of you. But I still need that notebook. I need it for the glimpses of scenes, the edges of characters, the half-formed ideas that linger in the twilight between imagination and the formality of Times New Roman. The notebook is the nebulae for everything that will eventually be printed on the page, and that is why it is so essential.
And I need to find it soon.....