Blogatron

Dilemma

I went to the stationery store the other day, which is a little like an alcoholic going into a bar to eat some peanuts.* I was "just looking for a 2003 datebook," heh. But naturally, I had to look around a little. Test out the new pens. Fondle the writing paper. Browse the wrapping sheets. Mmmmmmm yeah.

And, of course, there were the notebooks.

I can't resist a blank book. Lined, unlined, sketchbooks, fancy cloth journals, spiralbound notepads - I love them all. So blank, so pure, they come with no expectations and endless possibilities. Will this be the notebook to unleash my genius? Would this one better accommodate my insights, my thoughts, my Scrabble scores?

The clear winner on this particular visit was a boxed set of small books made from rag paper, with a rainbow of covers decorated with tiny painted dots. So cute! So functional! I was infatuated.

And yet, I had to resist their siren call.

You see, my apartment already contains approximately seven thousand blank books in all styles, shapes and sizes. I have enough free paper real estate to last me for months, possibly years, even if I continue at my current high rate of scribbling. The problem is that all of these books have been deflowered already. Many have less than a dozen pages used, but each is a little piece of history that would be glaringly out of place were I to begin to add to it now. Although they may contain numerous blank pages, each has something - some notes, a few entries from the umpteenth time I started a paper journal, something.

So on the one hand, the thrifty part of my nature gets up in arms about buying a sexy new notebook when there is all this blank paper around, while my compulsive side cannot stand either the messiness of slapping the new down right next to the old, all out of order, or the baggage associated with ramblings from the past. I mean, can I really think clearly when only a few thicknesses of paper separate me from one of my abortive high school journals? I think not.

Meanwhile, both sides are united in guilt. All these fractionally used books symbolize waste, and worse, the disheartening notion that I can start, but never finish, projects.

I would like to know what you all would do. Would you box all this stuff up and move on with a vow to use up each new bok from now on? Would you conscientiously revisit each abandoned writing pad until all the space was used, the bad poetry of your youth be damned? Would you compromise by removing the already-used pages and having them rebound, so that you can use the remainder of the books almost as if they were fresh and new?

And can anyone come up with a decent excuse for me to drop thirty bucks on a set of totally dreamy polka dot journals?

*Sorry about that awkward simile. I was going to say "like a junkie strolling through __________," with __________ being a place that's famous for being home to smack dealers, but then I realized that I don't know any of those places except for from the movies, and of course they've cleaned up all those now. Like, the Lower East Side is so 1997. So the lesson here is, don't come running to me for your heroin shopping needs.

Posted by hilatron at January 15, 2003 07:50 AM