A few years ago, a friend asked if I wanted to see their notebook collection. I readily agreed, because notebooks are portals of possibility that cause my imagination to soar.
I was not disappointed. Crowning a corner bookcase, like an altar, was a neat row of spines. Perusing each one, leafing through its bare pages, felt like touching the soil from which a wondrous story might grow.
“Do you have any plans for them?” I asked. “Ideas for what to write?”
“No,” my friend answered. “I just like them.”
What?
You can just do that?
You can keep something simply because you like it, free from any pressure to use it for a particular purpose?
I had no idea. But now I do – and I’ve got some pristine notebooks of my own.