Originally, I was going to say that most of the musicians I know are gear sluts. But then I realized they all are. They may feel the need to purge gear occasionally, but the gear is acquired (and obsessively researched) all the same.
I am the writing equivalent of a gear slut. I don’t know what the correct terminology would be. It all started with notebooks– reams and reams of them! I love yellow legal pads that come shrinkwrapped in stacks. Costco is my hookup, because they get the nice ones with the hard cardboard backs, stiff enough to write on if I’m using my lap and not a table. I love the Spanish notebooks from Barnes and Noble, spiral bound, and with color coded pages. And those are graph paper, which floats my geeky little boat even more.
I love the large, floppy Moleskines that come in 3-packs, because they are pretty and lightweight, and I can toss them into my purse without too much added weight. It’s hard to use your lap as a desk with them, though, and I usually have to resort to carrying around one of my daughter’s larger picture books to put under them. Nothing says, “I’m a serious writer!” more than a huge Pinocchio picture book. No, wait. Maybe I’m becoming the Honey Badger after all?
And I love the little teensy Moleskines that started their lives as calendars but didn’t get tossed into my purse during the right month and now exist instead as the story version of kindling. Those are the juiciest notebooks, because that’s where I ask all the questions– the ones I end up Googling when I get home, then erasing off the computer history out of sheer embarrassment. Those are the notebooks where I write down story ideas or overheard snatches of conversation. Those are the ones I should burn when I’m done with them, because they are more personal than a diary ever could be, since they’re more subconsciously revealing than not. But do I toss them, ever? No, because they usually have recipes, phone numbers and addresses. They are like little powder kegs of shame, ready to go off.
I used to collect pens, but I finally got myself a really nice Rotring set– a mechanical pencil and a fountain pen– and now I might be cured. I still enjoy them, and I do have my preferred brand (Pilot! V-Ball!), but I am not on the hunt. Kind of like with boys. I fell in love, I got married, and am no longer on the hunt. Boys = Pens. Let the Freudian fun commence! I suppose if I ever start to hunt down fountain pens again, that would be a problem.
Does that mean I am the notebook? Because I don’t think I’ll ever figure those out and find the Ultimate Notebook, the Holy Grail of Paper. Maybe that’s why I have so many different notebooks– one for each of my selves? The mom notebook. The wife notebook. The teacher notebook. If I put them together, will I get the perfect Me Notebook?
Oh, crap! I totally read this book already, and it was absofreakinglutely depressing. I think I gave it away so that someone else could get depressed by it.
I have been noodling away at Project one, and have almost reached 8 pages. When I get to ten, I think I’m going to leave it until next week and work on Fluffy Project 2 instead. I could use some fluff in my life right now. That, or I’m going to invest in a nice big bottle of nuanced Gin made in Portland or Brooklyn or somewhere really angsty and fashionable. I mean, really. If this were a different blog, you’d be getting an earful right about now.
I am listening to this and developing quite a musical crush.