Me and My Moleskine

Next time you are at a meeting, glance around the table and observe the number of people who are actually taking notes in something quasi-permanent. Note the ones with the legal pads or the pieces of paper - - take note of the ones that show up without either pen/pencil and paper. The rare individual will show up with the diary-journal with the intent to have a permanent and documented record of the meeting. Our world of bits and bytes is slowly causing us to disconnect from the physical collection and art of listening, writing, and reflecting.

(Note - - At our child's birth classes many years ago, my wife and I were the only ones to show up with something to write with and write on. So, out of 25 couples we were elected group leaders, mainly because the pen and paper gave us the appearance of leaders. At the male/female break-out sessions we were ask to record questions for the entire group. So the first question from my male brethren was - - "When can we have sex with our wives after the birth?" The second question was "Can we change the meeting time for next week due to the conflict with a Cowboys playoff game?" That was the last time I brought pen and paper.)

I use a Moleskine - - and I fully understand that a Moleskine makes no sense in a wired world. Maybe it's the tangibility of writing, or the paper - - maybe it's the process of writing, thinking and reflecting. Maybe it's the balance - - the link between the old and the new. Maybe it's the feel of three dimensions - - or the fact that I can tape stuff into it that might be important someday. Who knows - - every day a new entry, and every six months or so a new Moleskine.

Author William Powers is a Moleskine user - - and he writes the following in Hamlet's BlackBerry: A Practical Philosophy for Building a Good Life in the Digital Age (2010):

Unlike my screens, which thrust words, images, and sounds at me all day and night, my paper notebooks project no information at all. The pages are blank. They invite me to fill them with information, and when I do, it's information of my own choosing that I write with my own hand. Crossing my front yard one morning, for instance, I remembered an obscure historical fact about Madagascar that I'd heard the day before and realized might be useful in a writing project I've got on the back burner. Out came the notebook, in went Madagascar. Having survived the winnowing processes of my consciousness, it had earned a spot on the page, and just the act of writing it down raised its profile in my thoughts. When you're used to clicking keys all day, shaping letters one by one feels exotically earthy, memorable just by contrast.