First thing this morning, I spilled milky coffee all over my skirt. Fortunately, my skirt is already the color of milky coffee, and looks exactly the same as before.
I also switched to a new composition book, for the same reason as usual (reaching the last page of the old one. P.S. good quality pre-consumer-recycled composition books are 75 cents at Staples right now.) This is always a period of agitation, not because I'm attached to a given notebook as an object, but because my notebook is a living and in progress document that contains To Do lists and scraps of current projects; it takes at least a month for me to transfer or complete everything that needs it, which means I have to carry and flip through two notebooks and sometimes I don't finish a story or remember I've written a poem because it has fallen into a cross-notebook gap. This only happens every nine months or so, fortunately, and the idea of a different system - separate notebooks for lists, stories, songs, etc - is repellent, a poor analogy for my creative process, much less portable, and full of excuses for not writing things down until I know where they're going. (This is, arguably, why I can only write short stories in a word processor and have to do everything else longhand first.)
