Normally, I love the start of a new year as it provides me with the opportunity to indulge in my passion (OK, addiction) for fine stationary products.Armed with no less than half a dozen journals, diaries and notebooks of varying sizes and textures, I enjoy spending the winter evenings sprawled out on the couch, dreaming of what I’ll fill them with over the coming months.
2008 has thus far has been a complete let down. Granted, I’ve not had much time to shop, but for the first time since I can remember, the desire to feel up the silky/leather covers of potential notebooks is non existant. Considering I’ve been ringing in the new year with stationary since I was a girl, this is quite worrying indeed. While other kids collected stuffed animals and dolls, I played with desk-sized calendars, organisers and legal pads, courtesy of my dad’s office. One year he surprised me with a bottle green diary.
“Look,” he said, showing me the the gilded edges and tiny accompanying key. “It holds five years worth of secrets.”
By the age of ten I needed a Trapper Keeper to fit most of my secrets. Plus, I had such chunky writing that the elfin pages of my first diary wouldn’t hold my thoughts for the next few hours, much less five years.I thought about that journal today, when I found myself on public transport with nothing to scribble on, not even a scrap of a paper. Nevermind that I’m the type of person who stashes emergency pocket-sized moleskines in her handbag for fear of being caught out. The problem is that I haven’t felt the urge to write for weeks. And even if I had the urge, I’m so uninspired, that stringing a few sentences together is a challenge.
So why the inauspicious, paperless start to 2008?? Can it be that I’ve finally run out of things to say, or just the desire to say them? And isn’t that the same thing?