Notebooks and notes

I went into town yesterday. I had bills to pay, food to buy, parcels to post .

(Note to all winners of prizes in the Tote Bag Contest - your prizes went in the mail yesterday so I hope they reach you soon)

I also went into WHSmith in the precinct and was thrilled to see that they had no copies of The Alcolar Family and only one copy of The Duke's Secret Wife left on the shelves.

They also had a stationery sale. For me, a stationery sale is a worse temptation than the serpent in the garden of Eden.

I love notebooks. They always hold such infinite possibilities.

Just think of all the amazing words, the wonderful stories that can be written in those pristine pages. The memories and images recorded for posterity . . .

And some of them at 75% off. I was so, so tempted . . .

. . . errr - I don't need any notebooks I have notebooks. I have a practical ring file pad that sits beside my keyboard where I scribble notes to myself as I work so that I dont forget important ideas.

I have a handbag notebook for ideas that strike me when I'm out and about.

I have beautiful notebooks that my friends and family have given me. Notebooks so lovely that I don't dare to sully them with my scribbles. They paralyse me - but I love them.

So why do the really important notes - the ones that come in a flash of inspiration and mark points on which the plot of my book, the development of character, the intensity of emotion always end up on the tattiest piece of paper, along with yesterday's shopping list?

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