On Monday I forgot my notebook. I was lost without it, and spent the day fluffing around, not getting anything done of any substance. On the previous Friday I had bussed and walked home from work with my head pounding with ideas - in fact, my whole body seemed full of my novel (it is a most curious sensation, anyone else had it?) and when I got home I had to lock myself in the toilet and scribble wildly before I could disengage and greet the family.
But on Monday, on the way home, nothing. Wondering what was for dinner maybe.
My probem on that day wasn't that I didn't know what the story was, or that I didn't know what needed researching (although I had made a list of books to get out of the library in my notebook). It was just that without my notebook, I couldn't transport myself back to that place of total supplication I had been in on Friday.
I have trouble enough with the beginning of the week. The weekend always deflates me, and Fridays are by far my most vigorous day, but without my notebook, I couldn't even begin the process of building up the momentum again. That 1B5 exercise book carries my creative life between its thin, blue- and red-lined sheets. I'm using it right now, scribbling away (believe me, it is a scribble - I don't think anyone else could decipher it) in a cafe over a coffee and a bagel, and I will type this into blogger when I get to the office. It's my companion at lunch and coffee time. I will never be lonely as long as I have my 1B5. It makes me feel smart. It's a good listener. I am lost without it.