Nothing sets off the fantasy of literary creation like a blank notebook. The fancier, the better. I have my own set of unrealised fantasies unwritten in the pages of a number of beautifully inspirational notebooks. Pages that are smooth, textured, handmade, machine-pressed, ruled, plain, white or coloured. I'm one of those who cannot pass by a Moleskine display without feeling an acquisitive twinge. Just as some people collect shoes and handbags, I collect notebooks. This weekend, I spent some time cleaning out my shelves and was amazed at the number that emerged, some entirely blank and others with a few pages used. In sum, they seemed to represent a whole lot of aspiration and very little work. The aesthetic of the bound empty pages seems to work in a particular way to drive my imagination--and so I spend a good few minutes looking at the inviting blankness, thinking of how they will look in a few months, filled with violet (or black, or blue) ink. I imagine that all those
making sense of the everyday