Photo by Thomas Martinsen on Unsplash

To My Fancy, Expensive Moleskine Notebook…

You cost $20. But your ever-so-slightly thicker paper was so worth it.

We met at my local independent book store. Me, feeling creatively unfulfilled. And you, sitting there by the checkout counter, all fancy and leather-bound.

We saw each other. My mind flash-forwarded to us at an artisanal coffee shop. I’d be writing all my best ideas in your inviting blank pages. Your off-white, high quality paper would house all my creative genius. (In that vision, I was even using a fountain pen, a pen worthy of your fanciness.)

I would never have a creative slump again, I thought. Because I’d have you.

So I bought you. Off we were, to go create magic. Only the best writing would be reserved for you.

My grocery shopping list? Pffft, would I really want to write “Pick up Fiber Gummies” in your pages? Of course not, my sweet muse. I would give that menial job to a sticky note. They’re dispensable and cheap. Unlike your fancy threaded-together, grid-lined pages.

You see, you are for REAL writing.

And yet, when I sit down with you to write, I feel this pressure.

I feel the need to write something perfect. It feels like anything less than that…