I love notebooks, as well as pens. I love the tactile sensation of the pen gliding over paper, of the little scratch as I make my mark on the pages. I love the smell of the paper and the hint of ink, and it always brings a smile to my face when I finish with ink blotches on my fingers. It’s a satisfying experience that I have always loved.

Of course, for all small as they are, notebooks take a long time to fill up. I have ones in use for specific projects (such as lists of my favorite names, or a collection of notes for a series) but really my primary notebook is a sort of catch all for more than just story ideas. I’ll write important dates down in them, I’ll write letters or shopping lists or little reminders for later. I’ll log my dreams, or if I’m writing something down for therapy later I’ll put it in there. I’ll write simple recipe ideas for later, books I want to read, there are so many different notes in my books that I think people would be surprised. I know I am.

As a result, notebooks are one of my favorite gifts to receive. I have them stashed all around the house for various reasons and for various intended uses. I write things down while talking to people, or if I get an idea while playing a game. I’ll write down things to look into later when I don’t have time at that precise moment to Google it. I have sketchbooks for art, less fancy notebooks for school notes, and notebooks with grids for plotting various things I need to plot. It seems like I have a notebook for everything now.

It would probably make more sense to keep it all digital but there is something about the sensation of writing things out by hand that I can’t resist. I’m not giving up until I have to.