There isn’t much need for stationery for the modern writer, is there? Or is there?
You wouldn’t think so. I’ve already mentioned in these pages that I write in Pages, fullscreen, so that only the piece of paper is before me on an otherwise black screen, and only my words appear upon it in black. I do not like visual distractions, so I don’t even have a visible desktop while I’m working. When I’m really getting serious, I don’t have twitter throbbing away in the top right hand corner of my screen, either, coming and going with nuggets of gossip, information and the flotsam and jetsam of modern life.
Every word I write goes straight into the computer.
I have just spent the last hour ogling stationery, though. I bloody love stationery, so, when I read the word ‘Silvine’ in Lucy Mangan's article in the guardian online this morning, I couldn’t resist sticking the word in Google and sifting through the ‘Classic’ range, where I found examples of the exercises books I used at school. It was a little bit of a heaven on a Thursday morning. There were the orange lined books, and the little blue manilla ones we used for music notation. Some of those books had lined paper and some plain, and some had half-and-half, where there was room to draw a picture at the top of the page and write about it below.
That’s where my story telling began, and I will forever be nostalgic about stories like, “What Moses Did Next”, and “What I Did During My Summer Holidays”. The former being an example of my take on the magic that might have been R.E. and the latter a great opportunity for making stuff up.
The blank page has never filled me with the kind of fear that others suffer from. Every blank page offers me a new opportunity to begin.
So, I shall continue to buy stationery, and some of it will really only be for looking at, but those little black Moleskines will continue to be filled with ideas for stories and those post-its will continue to hang off the bottom of my Mac, covered in lists of events and names of characters.
And, when all is said and done, rejections would almost be nicer if they winged their way home on the backs of stiff little postcards made from gorgeous watercolour paper, but you can’t have everything.