People can be addicted to a lot of things: money, good make-up, nice clothes, living the high life, travel, smokes, drugs and sex. Me — my addiction is pinnacle geek girl — I am hopelessly, addicted to paper.
My love affair with paper (notebooks, journals, drawing pad) began as a snot-nosed six year old. Usually depleting a month’s worth of pad paper in a matter of days because I can’t stop writing or drawing in them. Since I write quite heavily and forcefully on paper, my notebooks all bear the marks of previous day’s note like a forgotten fossil unearthed embedded in stone.
By the time I was twelve years old, I was already keeping journals. Back in the day, they come heavily-scented, with lock and key and usually in color pink. I would usually write my teenage angst and wrote laborious love letters to whoever was my object of affection at that time. I would detail perceived injustices, parental woes, dreams and wishes and pinings and drew whatever tickled my fancy back then. When I was in my 20s, I made the mistake of reading all of them (diary entries from the time I was in my early teens to right after college) and I immediately barfed on how clueless and how woefully romantic I was. I wanted to burn them lest I get famous and they come back to haunt me.
Now in my 30s, I am happy to say that I have a really good collection of notebooks/journals – they range from Harry Potter journals from Universal Studios in Japan; a stitched-up notebook made from an old book by a street-side gypsy in Paris; to Calligraphy worksheets bought from a Paperia in Barcelona; to the ubiquitous Starbucks and Coffee Bean Christmas journals.
In between that are the many notebooks I collect, now gathering dust in my bed side table because it takes me a great effort to use them. In my paper-junkie mind, I wanted to use them for something great (like a travel notebook or bullet journaling) and not just as a mere notebook for mundane stuff like Comm Campaigns or work notes (for that purpose, I often use a Jordi Labanda/Milquerius wide-bodied, graph lined hard covered notebook).
In between the notebook hoarding, of course there’s the extensive pen collection: ball point pens, nib-point, calligraphy pens, brush pens, etc.
Some women love the smell of a newly-bought leather bag, me -I get a kick out of the smell of a newly-opened notebook and the sound of a pen scratching on paper.
Hopefully, one day, when I am already blessed with kids — I hope to have a little tyke who will share her mother’s love for paper and ink. Sure, everything is online now – but, tell me what can be more romantic than a wonderfully-written poem, it’s ink barely dry, on parchment? Or a great journal entry, detailing an adventurous travel, concealed in a leather-bound, well-worn, dog-eared journal?