A friend of mine who has an organising company popped over earlier this week to help me, well, organise.
I thought I was pretty good at throwing stuff away but my goodness, she was ruthless. It was all I could to do hang on to the family heirlooms.
But rummaging through the many boxes I’d stacked up in a corner a couple of years ago (with the intent of sorting them out ‘at some point’), I couldn’t help but admire the amount of notebooks I’ve acquired over the years.
I found a dozen that were completely untarnished and almost the same amount that were partly used, plus reporter’s notebooks, A4 pads and tiny sketch books.
And of course, there were stacks of notebooks that were jammed full of scribbles, ideas and doodles, from cover to cover.
My finest treasure was my Filofax from the mid-Nineties. That leather-bound beauty knows a few stories I can tell you.
It occurred to me as I waded through this slightly overwhelming sea of ink and contemplation that I haven’t been without a notebook by my side for almost four decades. And I’m not counting schoolbooks.
While my friend boxed and re-boxed, I had a lovely time wandering down memory lane.
Notebooks, especially the ones earmarked specifically for story ideas, are little gems because there’s always a chance that some literary nugget lurks within.
And then there’s the thrill - or terror - of meeting a past version of yourself. That person you were five, ten, twenty years ago is right there, on the page.
I amused myself by reading some of the most truly terrible prose you’ve ever laid eyes on. DM me if you want to hear more.
My friend did a great job cajoling me along with the clear out. The end of day re-org tally was two black bin bags of rubbish and two for the recycling.
The amount of notebooks thrown out?
Precisely zero.
Is this a writer thing? Or just me?
I’d love to know your current notebook count.
Either way, I was incredibly proud!
Lisa