An open letter to myself and others like me

It’s fine to own a mountain of empty notebooks, absolutely normal and fine and sane! The sherpa who guides me through the Himalayan-sized pile of notebooks in my office tells me so anyway.

New notebooks, old worn down pads, ones stolen from work, gifted journals, notebooks “borrowed” from friends, books I’ve scavenged from skips (I don’t have a problem, YOU have a problem!), exercise books, loose-leaf notebooks, memo books, legal pads, spiral notebooks…you name it, it’s probably scattered around my house, gathering dust.

They’re for writing, of course – but what if I write the wrong words in them?! What if I start something and have a better idea? Or worse, realise the thing I’ve already started is total rubbish and needs hurling into Mordor?

And because I’m so afraid to make the wrong decision, I don’t make a decision at all.

But the solution is easy – draw a massive dick in it.

Seriously, open the pages at random and scribble a serpentine schlong across those pristine pages. Hell, make it a double page spread if you’re feeling bold enough! Break the seal so to speak.

Don’t prettify the penis, no dwelling on the dong, just slam it down like a plotting rod on a war map and let it do its thing. It’s there to spoil the notebook, not better it. It’s supposed to be a ‘bad thing’ that ruins a page (or two), that way you already fucked up and you can get on with the fun bit (unless producing pizzles is your jam – in which case, carry on cocking!).

Now that the book is used/ruined/deflowered you can go ahead and write some bloody words in it!