The worst thing you can do to a writer is steal her notebook. Persons of other professions, including teachers, seem to think notebooks are a convenient, use-by-use, disposable items that have no meaning no matter who owns it.
Notebooks are important!
Filled notebooks are the past, empty notebooks are the future, some planned, some without any idea of what it will contain. It’s a communion with your subconscious, with the Muses, with Apollo. With others, depending on what you write.
Like the TARDIS diary, I have exactly the amount of pages I need. Once a year or so, I get more, but during the year I am content with the blank pages, though not always with the full. When I type out my stories, I make corrections, add little ideas. But if it’s a notebook only, like my diary, I skim through the past content, amused, embarrassed. Notebooks, like the TARDIS, is a way to travel through space-time.
I love notebooks! Not just the use of them, but the smell and feel, too. I love that a private notebook is physically different from an academic notebook, and different from a professional notebook filled with stories, or a single, continuous story that doesn’t seem to have a concrete end, or repeats itself to find a better way to express an idea.
I’d better stop now, or I might not stop before the allotted time. What of your love of notebooks, of books? How would you describe their importance?