little red notebook

I’m so tired by the time I make it to the notebook section, having hunted for hours in the rainbow rooms of Powell’s books in that time-warped daze only books and their stores induce, running on drip coffee and a dry frosted scone. I had already developed a whole stack of stories, including a hardcover of I’ll Give You the Sun, a copy of the book that first introduced me to the idea of cutting, and a cheesy romance snagged sheepishly from the Booktok section. I cradle them to my chest, kept company by the promise of friendship and escape. It’s in the midst of this embrace that I spot the sign hanging from the ceiling-- “notebooks.”

I have so many already, including the two I brought with me on this roadtrip alone. But I can rarely resist the whisper of a blank notebook, fresh and untouched by any previous versions of myself that might weigh me down. A new notebook is possibility, in the form of crisp rustling sheets and an uncracked spine.

I start to sift through my options, skipping over the cheesy embossed heavy ones and heading for the “real” notebooks: quality, but understated. So the notebook stays quieter than what’s inside. The lined options are limited, though, and the navy blue one that matches the lace peeking out the top of my straight leg jeans has a thick hard cover. Which leaves me two options: twins, both Moleskine, one red and one black.

Of course I have to get the black one: it goes with everything. It’s one of my favorite colors. I have so many already.

I pick them both up, turning them over in my hands, weighing my options through thin cellophane. Frankly, the red one scares me. I imagine sitting at a table somewhere, pen in hand, paralyzed by the bright leather cover daring me to write a single word. Shoot, I don’t even like red-- I’m firmly a black, white, blue and faded green kind of girl. But the longer I hold the spines in my palms, the more that fire truck-glaring book seems like a test. 

I squint my eyes and put the black one down.