This entire time--since I finished the first draft of LPT until now, the notebook for my novel has been sitting closed on the corner of my desk.
By the cover you can tell it went everywhere with me. It's stained with red wine and sunscreen (I think this may go without saying, but I drink gin poolside); the spine is banged up and bent from the inside of my bag.
Since I finished the draft, it's been parked on my desk.
I don't so much miss carrying it around. It's big. It's a Canson 9x12 sketchbook so it's not exactly "pocket size." It just so happens I have a best friend who makes handbags, and the last big bag she made me, along with the one she is soon to construct, is just big enough to hold this book.
I prefer it to be as it is, on my desk. Waiting. The temptation to open it and root around is nearly intolerable, and why I've left it sitting here, torturing myself I don't know. Except that this notebook is the same as all the other notebooks I keep for my novels, so if I were to have it anywhere else besides my desk, I'd be forced to look through them to determine which I'll need on Saturday.
God, I'm so excited. And I know it would appease me, even a little, to open my notebook and explore some of my thoughts. But that would ruin me for the reading. I think I should have plenty of distance, so it's cold, so I can better see what I have in this draft but the thing of it is I can't forget about it. Like, it won't go away.
I'm sick of being cut off. Please applaud me for my self-control.