Beautiful blank books...

Isn't it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess what the writing on them will be.

Maud Hart Lovelace

One thing people quickly learn about me is that I have a bit of a stationery "thing"; have had for as long as I can remember. I've no idea how it started or where it might end and I sometimes wonder what madness might ensue if I ever gave it free rein. I don't give in to it (arguably I exert extreme control!) and I still have a sizeable stash by non-stationery-geek standards. I know how bizarre this can seem to some and I also know that I'm (by far) not alone in this quirk. I love when I meet someone who shares it and there is a mutual recognition, an obvious eye-twinkle during a chat about the joys that even a browse through an online stationery store can bring. Being let loose in a real shop - filled with tangible, smellable paper, writing instruments, inks & general stationery "stuff" - can make for giddiness and shortness of breath. Truly.

I especially love a notebook. Books for writing, books for drawing, books for pasting stuff into, books for just running my hands over and sticking my nose into. Any book of blank pages qualifies, lined or unlined. It doesn't have to be fancyschmancy either. A simple exercise book is no less appreciated. There's just something so delicious about the potential that a blank book holds for me. In fact, so much so, that I keep books deliberately empty for years just to preserve that sense of promise... and then I write in them from the back, to further extend the illusion. Yes, weird, I know.

Because it's common knowledge amongst family, friends and colleagues that I find notebooks so swoon-worthy, I'm lucky enough to receive them as gifts too and these are most treasured because they've been specially chosen for me with thought and care. I often keep these for several years before I use them as well and sometimes, if they are really beautiful, I angst over "spoiling" them with my squiggly handwriting.

I do use them though - eventually. In time they all find their perfect purpose... as a journal, a space for work-meeting notes, a place to stick inspirational pictures, to gather life's ephemera or to press leaves... In time.

This week I'm due to start a new journal and I'm choosing from this pile of three beauties - all gifts and all gorgeous in their own way. The bottom one was a Christmas gift three years ago from a colleague at my last place of work. The middle one came to me from New York, bought by a special friend whose luggage was already dangerously close to overweight but she knew its rightful home was with me and tucked it in anyway. And the top one, a Birthday present from my dad and step-mum, who knew that everything about it would appeal to me... the size, the horses, the colours - so me.

I have set them on top of my bookshelf for now and when the time comes, probably midweek, one of them will reveal itself to be the right one. I can't wait to see which it is.