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I had five expensive Moleskine notebooks before I realized I had a problem. My addiction began years ago in the fiery bustle of a San Francisco kitchen.
Since the summer of my junior year, I spent high school Fridays and weekends working without pay, learning as a commis at Spruce, a Michelin-starred restaurant in pursuit of my dream: becoming a chef and one day owning a restaurant like it.
A gregarious high school kid with a talent for charming, by my senior year I had infiltrated the restaurant group that owned Spruce. Bacchus Management group was run by a man called Tim Stannard, the smartest guy in the room and a restauranteur of remarkable caliber. He commanded a band of partners responsible for the oversight and day-to-day operations of the group’s eight restaurants and artisan coffee company. The partners embodied what I, at seventeen, wanted in life. They were Michelin-starred chefs, champions of table service and scarred veterans of the restaurant industry. They were either consummate businessmen or had remarkable talent for projecting competence.
The dapper partners shared tastes in cigars, fine wine, impeccable food, and the BMW 3-series. While each married to their iphones, which incessantly sang for attention, no partner was to be found without a jet-black Moleskine notebook. Within the stylish notebooks were surely scratched great industrial truths, pieces of culinary greatness, vinous wisdom and the phone numbers of many stunning women and I needed to have one.
Though I was captivated by the notebooks and their contents at seventeen, it was not until years later that I bought my first. I had five before I realized I had a problem. My Moleskines are devoted to creative pursuits. While I edit electronically, my first drafts of stories, blog posts, and letters are all scrawled in the notebooks, whose soft paper and perfectly-spaced lines make a luxury of longhand.
The backlit screen of a computer gnawing constantly at my eyes makes my head hurt, turns my brain to soup, and makes me sleepy. I can write in a Moleskine for hours without the need for a break. Paper is soft on the eyes.
Writing by hand is relaxing, its permanence refreshing. I love the tactile sensation of my wrist and hand gliding across cool, soft paper. I write with a pen so I can not erase or edit until I rewrite. When I write on a computer, I find myself painstakingly perfecting language–deleting and rewriting portions of a piece instead of working towards a story’s completion. When I write by hand, I pay little heed to the refinement of ideas or diction until a draft is finished, returning later to edit my prose.
The elastic bands and closures on my Moleskines are a simple and wonderful feature. Not only do they prevent my notebooks from flying open in the wind, they also create a psychological barrier for prying eyes. My Moleskines have elastic bands and bathrooms have locks for the same reason. Hemingway said the first draft of everything is shit, a sentiment to which I can attest. Were someone to read my notebooks, I would be mortified. They are pleasant facades for products unfinished, dressing rooms for naked work.
The Confluent Kitchen said:
I own several moleskine notebooks myself along with a million pens with the soft grips (even though I hardly ever use them).
I would consider myself an ‘okay’ writer. I can typically get my point across in a clear fashion. Being that I would like to be a better writer, maybe to the point of being entertaining, I keep buying myself these notebooks that sit empty.
It’s not that I have a block of any kind. I just have a short attention span. I sit down to write down my super fabulous ideas.. then I see a shiny object and it’s all over.
Ryan said:
I, too, am distracted by all things shiny and noise-making. When I’m having a really hard time staying focused, I snack. A bag of peanut m&ms does wonders for concentration.
The Confluent Kitchen said:
I give in too easily. One of my coworkers used to jingle keys at me when I’d be in conversation just because he knew it would make me turn, look at him, then promptly forget what I was doing.
Ryan said:
The same thing often happens to me when cars pass in the distance. I’ll be happily working away until—car!—and, see, I forgot what I was writing about.
The Confluent Kitchen said:
I think you’re OK as long as you’re not chasing after them.. 🙂
Meredith Winters said:
I would have to agree with you. After reading this post, I tried going about my essay writing the way I used to, with good ol’ pen and paper. It feels as though my thoughts come out clearer. Writing out one’s first draft on paper is also simply a good way to allow for review when it must then be typed up.
Thanks for the post!
Ryan said:
I’m so glad you were inspired and hoped your paper turned out well. That story I’m writing about you is going rather well. I’ll be sure to send a telegram to alert you upon its completion.
jillbadair said:
Makes me want to go buy one right now and and enjoy a few moments of luxurious longhand.
Ryan said:
They are truly a treat, especially when paired with a favorite pen and a little Debussy.