That's right, notebook. I am having an affair...with my new blog. I can't help it. I'm only human. This blog is so pretty, so public, so new. You, on the other hand, have always been so private, so primitive, so likely to expire. The idea of a writer traversing fields and ponds with her leather bound notebook in tow is so passe, so a romantic impossibility belonging only to the realm of writerly images. I was never able to bound you in cow skin. You abhorred it; I could barely afford it. And where are these fields and ponds that supposedly generate great characters for the next-great-Canadian-novels? I am still looking for that one tree you once promised me, that little moss covered nook at the base of a trunk, that deep contemplative shade away from the hazy summer sun. Hhmph. More writerly images.
I'm sorry, notebook. But I do think it's time we try other connections. I'll come back to you every once in a while. Will you be there for me in moments of crisis? moments of severe self-doubt? moments of unbearable loneliness? I'm sure my new blog is not equipped for containing such abysses. But you are. You have always been my most faithful crevasse.
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