Perfect

I have been cleaning out my office (well, attic-with-shelves-and-a-table) and am appalled by the number of notebooks I have in my possession. There are other things I accumulate-- purses, bags, wallets, and don't even ask me about my box of greeting cards!--but the notebooks are far and away the most prevalent. 

I like paper, and there are apparently as many ways of binding it together in a pleasing wrapper than I ever thought possible. There is the leather-bound journal I bought in Florence, the empty stitched notebook that fits into another lovely leather case (Crane's stationery, Tyson's Corner). There are the Circa notebooks from Levengers (you can actually rearrange the pages!) and the quotidian spiral books that remind me of taking class notes in college. Then, there are the Moleskin notebooks that come with blank or lined or quadrille paper, and have that eminently practical elastic band that holds the book together so the pages don't get mussed.

There are 3-ring and 6-ring notebooks, some with zippered cases, some with handles or shoulder straps for easy transport. There are presentation folders for those days when I need to carry only a few papers, but need to look organized. Some books are small and purse-worthy; some are tall and reminiscent of ledgers you might see in Dickensian stories; some are like reporters' notebooks, and others, artists' sketchbooks. When opened, each holds a tantalizing morsel of information. One documented a European trip in 1985, another contained a half-finished letter written after our move to Alexandria. Some have snatches of The Novel, or bits of writings that surfaced later in different form. 

The goal, I believe, has always been to have a journal, in which I would consistently record my days. I have failed utterly. I do write things down, but hardly ever in the same place. The current notebook is always upstairs or in the car or abandoned on the dining room table. Inaccessible. And I am far too lazy to pursue it. Far easier to write in or on whatever is handy.

I'm still seeking the perfect notebook: the one with smooth, lined paper that makes my pen float across the page, recording beautiful, moving words and deep thoughts. The very act of opening this book will be inspirational--a far cry from the mad scribbling that goes on at stoplights when I get an idea on the road. My notebooks are so civilized, and I am still trying to believe there is one out there that can civilize me.

Not a chance. Inspiration isn't neat and tidy; it doesn't come when bidden, if it deigns to come at all. Inspiration is a rowdy mutt that leads you through the muck and mire of writing, chasing and being chased, cheerfully holding ideas, like Frisbees, in its grinning mouth--teasing and slobbering and constantly evading capture. If I could write in my prissy notebook every day, in a civilized fashion, it would hardly be any fun at all. It would be like walking an extremely well-behaved showdog: one that had had all its 'dog' removed. My notebook collection bows to that ideal--but I don't think I really want it. Give me a mutt and an undisciplined cross-country chase any day of the week. Arf.

(Note: the picture above is an anonymous internet mutt, unfortunately not mine.)