I am, for lack of a better word to describe my professional life, a writer.
That means I get a lot of writerly gifts, which is not as bad as it sounds. Could be worse, at any rate. What do doctors and lawyers even get? Neckties or earrings, I imagine, depending on where their presentation falls on the gender continuum, and then those books of lawyer/doctor jokes and various novelty desktop items. Grim stuff.
Writers at least get things of use. Notebooks and pens, mostly, or sometimes reference books (although those can feel a little pointed coming from someone who knows your prose), and of course from those who know us and love us, alcohol.
So I consider myself something of an expert when I break to you a piece of bad news about those gorgeous little hand-bound notebooks that crafters sell at art fairs and such: actually writing in them is an unbearable, unmanageable bitch of a time.
No, really. I mean it. They suck. I’m sure they were a luxury back when we didn’t have enough spare paper to even wipe our asses with, but this is the 21st century. We can do better than four lateral inches of paper bent savagely toward a crooked binding and tied up with a leather thong.
You can’t write much on one of those pages, you know. A college-ruled spiral notebook isn’t glamorous, but you can at least get a paragraph onto a single sheet in them. Cute little pocket-sized notebook with a celtic knot stamped on the leather binding? Not so much. Three, four sentences, max, and the half the page that’s closest to the spine is going to be illegible when you look back over it, because your knuckles were banging the other page the whole time. And that’s just for righties. Lefties have it even worse.
Now, I don’t say all this with any sense of emotional or intellectual superiority. I’m the same as the rest of you; I want to fucking love those little things. They’re great. You feel so writerly holding one. But you can’t write in it for shit, and that sort of defeats the purpose, unless the purpose is to feel writerly rather than to be writerly, and I do enough of the former and not enough of the latter as it is already.
Oh, and they don’t actually fit in pockets. Did I mention that yet? Fat spines and bulky bindings, characteristic of the craft fair breed of adorable little hand-bound notebooks, do not cram into pants or jacket pockets effectively. The big belly pocket on a hoodie can take some of the smaller ones, if you don’t mind looking like you’re pregnant with a LEGO person. But I suppose if you own adorable little writer notebooks you probably also own an appropriately grungy messenger bag (maybe with some buttons), so that one might be less of an inconvenience to the average user than it is to bagless me.
Anyway, I just thought you should all know. And don’t worry, I’ll still use the ones you give me. I will write my notes and my drafts and my scribbled thoughts for later and my secret yearnings and my World of Warcraft character’s in-game poetry in them, because I love the romance of longhand writing and the warmth of using writerly gifts that people gave to me, a writer, because they knew that I was one.
I just won’t be able to read any of it later.