Is it real?

Is there such a thing as the perfect notebook, or is it a quest for the impossible?

The Traveller's Notebook story is infectious. It has got under my skin.

Type, traveller's notebook or Midori into a search engine and see what comes up.

I feel like I've opened the door of the wardrobe, not the one to Narnia. this is a strange land, is it Midoria?

It is a land where the simplest thing, a leather sheet with a handful of holes punched in it and threaded with an elastic band becomes a gravity well.

It draws in the refills and on the paper it collects the thoughts, ideas, tickets, stickers, stamps. Anything you could possibly get to stay between the covers, or with a clip on the edge (hanging on by the metaphorical fingernails,) pen, pencil.

There will be one somewhere, with sketch or watercolour paper, in an insert with a waterbrush tucked into the elastic or snuggled into a clip. It has to be.

I digress, my question was, is there such a thing as a perfect notebook, or are we, like the Grail heroes, chasing the impossible.

The quest, the journey, the search for the imposible, is what matters. When success is in the travelling, not reaching the end. 

What we discover about ourselves on the journey is the quest. The picture is a thought in action.

Without leaving my seat, what notebooks do I have to hand, and you can see the result.

A5, cahier, passport size, moleskine, home made kraft card cover cahiers. Leather Midori style, Wanderings, September leather, and a home made one. 

A motley crew, the current cast of a story that stretches back years, decades.

I've found making notebooks immensely satisfying, and I occasionally wonder if I have too many. Am I feeding a strange obsession? Perhaps, or merely doing something I enjoy and find relaxing.

Go on, admit it Martyn, you're hooked on stationery, when I find myself in that aisle in the supermarket, I am stationary.

There is a strange promise in a pristine notebook. to make the transient solid, capturing the fleeting thought and fix it on the page.

The fresh page, and the book beckons, taunts and challenges in one moment. To reveal a precious thing, not by peeling away, by adding lines of ink or layers of paint.

Who said the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step?

Every story begins with a single stroke of a pen on paper, or the sweep of a brush. The step into the unknown, how will the story unfold or the painting ever be finished?

The search goes on.

Will the perfect notebook reveal itself at the moment you close it, after reaching the end of the last page, knowing it becomes a passive companion, retrospective, and not an active player on the journey. 

Am I looking for an individual book, or a type. Closing the last page creates the desire to find a match, another of the type to continue the story.

The degree of perfection dictated by the task it is called to.

I'm drafting this in an A5 notebook with a suede effect cover, writing with the ubiquitous Parker jotter. Picked up for a few pounds at The Range. Off the top of my head I can't recall the brand.

I'm comfortable with it, scribbling the thoughts and drafts for a blog post on the pale cream paper. 

I may be in a mellow mood, for yellow paper, white is too stark, cold, clinical. It has an uncomfortable brightness.

ivory, pale yellow, or a similar colour is warm, more welcoming.

The notebook, let's call it THE notebook, as a type will call for a sense of connection. It will become a nexus from the fleeting world of thought to the outside world. Inviting, not taunting or challenging, welcoming.

Inviting the pen to jot down the idea. we are not doing lines for misbehaving. we're planning brilliant, intimate, inspired, life changing.

To ask so much of a notebook!

The perfect notebook couldn't do what we ask, it has to be as we are, imperfect. 

The cover of the Midori, of the numerous Fauxdori and alternatives is a skin, and the idea of making what you will out of it. The skin holds the parts and the book begins a life of its own, a companionship with its owner, but essentially it carries the bumps and marks of its own existence. 

They show its character, as our bumps and grazes show ours, it changes as we do, as we share the journey.

A friend, a companion, what else could we want?

Perfect!

Martyn

The Perfect notebook

Is there such a thing, a combination so tuned to you, the author, that words flow unhindered on to the page? The Notebook, the one, a soulmate whose signature beckons you between crisp white sheets, or perhaps, soft ivory?

The search continues.

 I've done it, I am not alone.

Have you ever?

Tried every notebook, on a shelf of identical mass produced copies, searching for the one with the right Zen, the essence of notebookness that touches you deeply?

Sniffed the 'new' paper smell, standing in the aisle of the staionary department, again, seeking the Zen of the book?

Reached the point where you have given up on finding the right one?

Bought one on the off chance and found it has enough Zen to be condusive to what you are doing to make the book useful. Perhaps a prepacked one, took the chance and it paid off - sort of?

Rejected a notebook one day, to grab it off the shelf on the next visit to the store and rush to the till before you have chance to change your mind?

Have you found what you think is the right one, with the right stuff about it,  and then hesitated to use it, needing the proper writing instrument to make the first mark?

Failed to find anything like what you wanted and then received one as a gift that becomes a key to a new journey?

It's said many times, by a creative who comes up with a solution to seize the imagination of the public, "I couldn't find what I wanted, I knew exactly what it was, so I made it myself."

The first step on a journey, begins alone, but you encounter many sharing a similar path, and what you now have is that thing you were looking for.

I enjoy Moleskine notebooks, the cahiers usually plain paper ones. I have a habit of ignoring the lines on pages. My handwriting can be big and scrawly, and indecipherable, and the  lines get in the way. 

My first encounter with the Moleskine

was a long time ago, but I remember the hesitation after unwrapping it.

I'll put my hand up, the story in the little leaflet tucked into the pocket at the back referencing, Picasso, et al, and almost total loss of the brand was part of the reason I bought it, and inspired the hesitation. A book, albeit a workaday notebook handled by such illustrious creatives commended respect. . 

 

I gravitated, in time, to the pocket cahiers. The small soft back notebooks, usually in packs of three, rather than the similar sized hardbacks. 

The three smaller books had the same number of pages as the hardback, and are more affordable. 

Back to my first time with a moleskine, and the hesitation. I felt it needed a little extra, that the first mark warranted a certain, I don't know what! The French  have a way of saying it!

It's looking at a  patch of freshly fallen snow. The footprint will be made, the call is irresistible, you know what I mean. Blundering is not an option. It has to be good. 

The first mark in a new notebook is a point of no return, once made, even with a pencil, (cheating by rubbing it out and starting again doesn't count,) it can't be unmade.

I wanted a writing instrument that felt it should make the mark. So, the Moleskine went into my bag, or my pocket, but remained untouched, unmarked, for weeks.

Poking around the local market, (Wednesday is Bric a brac,) and rummaging through the clutter on a house clearance stall I stumbled on a box of mechanical pencils. A worn individual caught my eye and closer inspection saw Yard-O-Led on the clip.

I asked the stall holder what he wanted for it, he said £3, I paid him, quickly, and moved on.

The casing is scuffed, the rhodium plating is chipped in places but stripping it down revealed the slender pockets where the 3 inch sections of pencil lead fitted. It does hold a Yard of Lead.

The styling was 1940s, possibly 50s, but old enough to be a contender for the first mark. (A conversation not long after with a Rep for Filo-Fax, who owned Yard-O-Led at the time suggested I insure it for a lot more than £3.)

Not the reason for allowing it be the first marker, but the notebook and pencil shared sufficient history to be logical companions.

The search isn't over, I am settled on the Cahiers, with the choice of paper. plain, lined, dot or grid.

Not sure about the Dots, but plain, and grid, or squared, definitely, depending the job in hand. Now a mutliple number of books being moved and handled, another element is required and the answer came from an author friend.

The Traveller's notebook, the Midori, an outer cover with room for multiple notebooks inside. This was new to me.

My first was Passport sized, joined by a larger version to accept the cahiers. A genuinely refillable cover! Neither are true Traveller's. The passport is a Wanderings and the larger from September Leather

Then the fun began, as I took it apart to load additional notebooks, (it had an extra band to add to the lonely book tucked inside the leather cover,) the thought occurred I could make one.

The original gift has the pristine paper/first mark conundrum. Awaiting the right moment, and instrument.

 

The Moleskine compatible was loaded with already started notebooks, so lacked the pristine challenge.

The task was to source the material. Leather, elastic and trinkets, beads etc. Once gathered, I had a go, with reasonable results.

I had a few cahiers in hand. They were duly installed and an excuse to visit local stationery departments magically appeared. Now the Lockdown effect touched base. Stocks of Moleskines appeared depleted, especially on the pocket cahier department. None could be found, even in the local Mall.

Plan A shifts to Plan F!

Ok, I had made an outside, what about the guts of the beast? A short spell of Internet searching and picking a friend's brain  provided useful information. Card and paper stocks were mustered, with sharp knives and cutting mats. A few foul ups followed, obviously.

Three completed, hand stitched, signatures later, the in'nards were in place.

It looked good. 

The indefinable thing, the unexpected bit, was the 'Zen.' The smell of the leather, the feel of it, everything it is - right, and piling into it with any old pen or pencil is easy. No hesitation, the clean page is an open invitation, a cheery 'come in' the paper is lovely!

The search for the perfect notebook will never end, it's an ideal. To make a new acquaintance along the way who immediately feels like an old friend has got to be something special.

Martyn