Over the summer, while I was playing in the woods out in Wisconsin, that Marit of mine sent me a care package full of all of our favorite things. Most of these things were drinkable - hot cocoa, tea, instant coffee - but stuck-in among everything was a blank notebook.
I would describe it as medium-sized for my tastes, with a soft orange cover and an elastic band that will stretch around the whole of it. There's a ribbon on the inside for the convenience of place-marking. The pages are lined, and the brand of notebook is "Piccadilly."
There is something quite thoroughly intoxicating about a blank notebook such as this. Oftentimes I find myself simply holding it, turning it over in my hands, running my fingers through its virgin pages as I salivate at the sheer possibility of it. What sort of treasures will tumble out of my brain, slide down my arm, and burst forth through my fingertips, exploding all over the blankness? What sort of story - as the directionless bastard child of a night of agonizing passion between Ink and Paper - what will it grow up to be?
I wonder about these things a lot every time I pick up a pen to scrawl out my own humble contributions to this world. If you could even call my words "a contribution," as I seldom allow any other eyes to see them.
Anyway. Back to the novel.
Jasmine Pearls,
Miranda
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