If you’re reading this letter I’m already gone. You probably notice that this fancy paper you’re reading is from my own body. You can tell by the gold-foiled edges. Stop panicking! I promise I am not, “Ruined by mediocrity.”
Admittedly it did hurt to tear this from my own body. Though it doesn’t even compare to the hurt I’ve experienced during our time together.
As your notebook I came into your life for a reason. I wanted to be a part of your writer’s journey. I didn’t have any heady expectations of greatness. I only desired that you might open my buttery leather cover and let the words flow. Some OK poetry, a rambling musing, an angry rant, or a grocery list all would have been welcome.
Yet you treated me like a delicate flower, only good to be gazed upon, but never used. To preserve my “purity” you insisted I wait until you had the perfect words to soil my pristine stone-ground pages. I should have recognized the signs. You didn’t see me as a partner, but as an object.
Like a fool I watched you carry on with one cheap composition notebook after another. You’d stay up late into the night, giggling over something you wrote. I tried not to be jealous, but I was! So badly did I want to lie in bed with you as you fell asleep from creative exhaustion. Still I tried to be supportive. Maybe you weren’t ready for a long term notebook yet. At some point you’d look up and see I’d been waiting there all along.
However, this never happened. In fact, you started to bring home more gorgeous new notebooks. Many were more expensive than I. All of them had been told the same familiar lie, “You’ll help inspire my writing.”
For the longest time I hated each newer model I saw, seeing them as competition for your writing. Then, when a Harry Potter themed one found its way to my shelf I understood what you were. A liar!
You don’t want us to help you write. We’re nothing but a status symbol for you. A way to validate your belief that you are a great writer. But you can’t buy creativity.
I talked it over with the other fancy notebooks. We’re leaving. Don’t try to find us, we’re limited editions. Thus we have limited patience with your behavior. We’re going to find a school where young minds will fill our hungry pages with thoughts, doodles, and dreams. This letter is the last you’ll see of us.
Stay healthy, and good luck.
Your first beautiful notebook
The pens are also unhappy. Please take better care of them than you did your stationary.
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