Indiana Jones and the Temple of Mild Inconvenience
Or: How I Learned To Conquer My Fear of Notebooks
Like most writers I know, I suffer from a crippling case of kenopapyrophobia: the fear of a blank page*.
A virgin piece of paper feels as vast and cold and terrifying as a nude trek through the Antarctic. The blinking cursor in a blank Word document seems to toll like a funeral bell. I randomly had to bash at the keyboard when I opened up Substack to write this newsletter so I didn’t have a panic attack.
But the worst offenders, by far, are notebooks.
I’ve always loved the idea of notebooks. Most of my writing is done on keyboards in front of screens, so the image of the writer who never goes anywhere without a trusty notebook to catch ideas and pin them down before they escape has always held a certain romantic appeal. And God knows I’ve gone through many in my time — from cheap reporter's pads to gorgeous, fabric-bound Moleskines given to me for Christmas by my mother.
In practice, however, I’ve always been a bit hopeless. I don’t dream often, and even when I do my subconscious brain enjoys sleep too much to wake me up just because I’ve had an idea worth writing down. And when I’m awake, most of the stuff that flies into my head doesn’t feel worthy of being recorded in that fancy Moleskine my Mum got me for Christmas.
By the time I reach the centrefold, most of my notebooks have devolved into a random mishmash of half-finished ideas, shopping lists and incomprehensible scribbling. And leaving them in a drawer with half their pages forever unfilled just seems wrong; to misquote Cloud Atlas, “a half-finished notebook is a half-finished love affair.”
It seemed as if my desire to become a notebook user would be forever unfulfilled. Then, about a year ago, I was saved by — of all things — Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
If you somehow haven’t seen it before, it’s about Han Solo and his dad James Bond trying to track down a DVD of their favourite Monty Python movie with the help of one of the coolest movie props ever put to film: a small leather diary. Held in place with a stout rubber band, its battered leather cover is stuffed to bursting with decades of drawings, scribbled notes and random pieces of paper containing clues to the location of the Holy Grail. I took one look at that little diary and fell completely and utterly in love with it. I knew I’d have to get one for myself (or at least something like it).
And so my quest began. It was hardly a Crusade — more of a light Googling session — though I did hum the John Williams theme to myself while I did it, so I’m still counting it. It took a while, but after a few weeks of searching, here’s what I found for myself:
Gorgeous, isn’t it?**
I know it’s only been eight months, but I really feel like we’ve got a good thing going. It looks more beautiful every day; the leather might be scuffed and scratched, and my initials have been almost worn away, but it’s developed a wonderful sheen when it hits the light just so. The paper is a dream to write on with my favourite pen (yes, I have a favourite pen, all writers do), and putting the elastic back over the cover with a satisfying snap still hasn’t gotten old.
Better still, I never have to worry about finishing it. The cover is beautiful but the inserts are cheap and functional, and once all the pages have been filled up, I can simply swap it out for a new one and keep on going.
But the best part is that it makes me feel more like the writer I’ve always been. I find myself cracking it open multiple times each day to jot things down, and every time I write in it I feel like I’m writing with purpose. They’re not all perfect ideas — I couldn’t tell you why I felt the need to write “SNOOPY TROMBONES!” the other night and underline it three times — but they come to me much more easily these days.
Writing in a notebook used to feel like brushing my teeth - something I had to remind myself to do every day because I was a grown-up. These days, leaving the house without it would be like walking out the front door without my trousers on.
I won’t be taking it to search for any forbidden cities or lost treasures any time soon, but every time I open it feels like the start of a brand new adventure, and I can’t wait to see where it takes me next.
Hopefully, I won’t accidentally end up with Hitler’s signature.
*I made up the word “kenopapyrophobia” because Google didn’t know the proper term for “the fear of a blank page”. If it’s wrong, I can only apologise to anyone who speaks Greek (and one Greek speaker in particular who will almost certainly read this) for butchering their beautiful language.
I should also apologise to any readers who suffer from hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia.
** My notebook is made by a company called Paper Republic. Here’s their shop, if you fancy one for yourself. They haven’t paid me to gush about it, I promise.
Bless you but I have no idea. You can have it. 😂