notebooks and writing.

i am addicted to notebooks.  when i went book-shopping last weekend, i grabbed a pretty little pink teNeues notebook.  my collection is getting bigger — from antique leather-bound to hard-bound fancy ones.  no, i just don't collect them.  i use them.  i can't leave the house without them.  i have this need to write down my thoughts before they actually evaporate. 

i love how jessica zafra, in her article entitled writing, a romance describes writing in one's notebook.  (published in metro's march 2007 issue), to quote two paragraphs –

i think the true romance of writing lies not in the suffering that's supposed to inspire it or the drinking and debauchery that are supposed to fuel it, but in the physical act of forming words with ink.  the blank sheets stare at you, mocking your fear and dread.  the emptiness weighs on your soul like an anvil.  you take up your pen and defile that blankness.  you say no to oblivion.

many prefer the convenience of a keyboard and monitor, but i like to feel the words in my hand, on the dent where my thumbnail bites into my index finger.  the notebook is an extension of my hand; i am what i write.