I have benefited SO MUCH from having a notebook I love.
Arguably, writing upon paper you love is more important than where you work, what atmosphere you prefer, or what gets your ink flowing. I doubt I am alone in that the surface I write upon is what "getting my ink flowing" all boils down to.
The journal I have been dedicated to for the past year was a Christmas gift from a friend at church. Upon the front are painted fountain pens. I love fountain pens. They are
My journal I have is awesome to. It isn't leather. It probably didn't cost half as much as a couple of the others I have from Barnes and Noble. But its my journal and I love it so much.
What breaks my heart is that it is almost full.
Which is the equivalent of dead. Like Latin.
I can go back and read from it. I can take ideas from it. But I cannot write in it. I cannot carry it around with me places.
It's a retired soldier who in battle was a shining star, but whom I can now only salute and learn from.
It hurts. It hurts so much that for the last 6 months (or more) I have written in it only sparingly.
Some of this lack of productivity can be attributed to the fact that I don't bring it anywhere.