Though everyday living is banal and predictable, I've come to recognize that each day must also be a dream-cycle.
I've recently taken to selling notebooks. Cream paper or colored, lined and unlined, cutesy and in muted colors. All apparently cheap. It isn't serious business (though it might become in a few years) but something that I do just because, or so that I can buy and do whatever I want with the little money I earn.
I'm not an authority on writing practices, though I've always been fascinated by the creative process (How can we ever quanitfy and qualify creativity? Must we?). Notebooks, at least to me, seem to be a crucial part of the writer's creative process. (As it is, notebooks are objects of convenience and "world-order" making for a lot of people). They are the starting points or "seedling pots" for writers, where all ideas, still nebulous and raw, begin to take form. The object - of anticipation and impulse to create worlds - serves the same purpose as that of the visual artist's sketch-pad, the sculptor's modelling clay, the composer's sheet.
Some feel the need to have several notebooks. One could be for the writing itself, for containing drafts or snippets of good passages for a story or poem. Another could be for ideas, small notebooks ideal for travelling. Another could be for the more practical side of living: accounting notebooks, notebooks for a list of expenses, for mounting receipts on...Notebooks for dreams and daydreams, for encounters, for re-imaginations of places...
I do have the same kind of practice and I think that, as of the moment, I have six notebooks. Three of them are for school, the other three are for writing practice.
These notebooks, besides helping me create a sense of order and accomplishment, also gives me an acute sense of being. Being a writer (however, only in my head), I create worlds within my mind, worlds within worlds, and translate them onto the page. Though I'm hardly ever aware of the idea that my own world, my self, may also be at the process of creation.
That I'm also contained in between the pages of some sort of notebook and someone (or something) is at work, writing this world I live in, using my point of view. No, I don't think that I'm the center and am special, only that I sometimes think as if I were a mere lens or an instrument for viewing this life in a particular way. And despite this thought, I still feel the need to create my own world, creating chracters - new lenses, in the hopes of presenting new ways of viewing the world.
The story of today is nearly done, tomorrow, however, is still a blank sheet. If I am the writer and create new worlds and characters, then who is writing mine?
It would be easy to say that it's also myself, through my actions, I write my own story and foretell my own fate. But somehow, it doesn't seem to work that way. And for the time being, I can't do much but wonder and consider notebooks in awe for the subtle power they harbor. Everytime I see one, I cannot help the impulse to create. The anticipation that something good might come out of the act of writing on a blank page the purest forms, the ideas that'll be later translated in electronic form.
Another pleasure to be found in notebooks is the fact that we can come back to them, in a few years or so, read them and find who we once were. Impolite as it is, I also see the discovery and reading of notebooks as an exciting foray into the private thoughts of other people. Through notebooks, we see how certain persons think.
It is different from reading books in a way that books are already the edited and refined versions of thoughts. It would be like going through a guided tour of the city. Reading someone's notebooks, on the other hand, brings out the flaneur. The lone wanderer of the city of the mind, creating his or her own paths through streets and labyrinths.