I confess that I own many, many empty notebooks. Some are spiral-bound, some are composition books, some are scribble pads of newsprint. Over the years, I have learned that a few of my friends understand the irresistible allure of blank pages, and most do not. My fellow junkies know exactly when the back-to-school bargains start at Office Max, have the routes to all the nearby Dollar Trees memorized, and know which brands of journals are sold on Amazon. Their car trunks, like mine, are often lined with empty 1-, 2- and 3-subject notebooks of many colors, both college- and wide-ruled.
You either understand the pull of vacant pages, or you think we are notebook nuts. That's okay; we have learned to stick together, forming a grapevine through which we share the pain of being being misunderstood and newly-discovered sources for bound paper.
Today I read a paragraph, in a book titled Writing Away, that aptly describes how a new notebook makes me feel. For my fellow fanatics:
There's nothing like the feeling of buying a brand new blank book. It's a tingly, buzzy sensation, not unlike the one you might experience admiring a shiny new car in your driveway (though I'll allow it falls a few digits lower on the thrillometer). Like a new car, a blank book is an invitation. It represents limitless possibilities... .
The book from which that excerpt is taken is about travel writing. In case you are not interested in writing about your travels, click to watch a TED talk by the author and you may change your mind.
Just curious: How many empty notebooks do you own?