A hoarder of notebooks, I buy any that catches my fancy. I take them home, and like Christmas ornaments, adorn my table with them. And that's where it ends, my fixation with them. Once a while I stare longingly at the blank pages, wishing I had the garnishing they need to make it my own. But fear sets in, that I will somehow let this notebook down by writing things not worthy of it, and so back it goes, to a soon to be forgotten nook of the house. Sometimes, like a pseudo-intellectual, I doodle quotes on to the pages, all the while feeling like a fraud. Surely I can conjure up a readable piece instead of copying someone else's lines- I think, with disgust and shame and wistfulness. And yet, the moment I see a notebook that catches my fancy, I take it home.