Dear readers of my owner,
This is Roxanne’s notebook, for once writing instead of being used to write in. Feels good, I must admit. I kind of get now why my owner, this bundle of feelings and emotions with legs likes to visit me frequently. You know, I might be an inanimate object, but I’m not stupid. I understand exactly how she feels every time she writes something in me (on me?).

The pressure she puts on the pen shows me how stressed out she is feeling. That happens mostly when she begins writing and then when the pressure transforms into this almost wave-like rhythm I know she’s relaxed. When she writes fast, I know she feels enthusiastic, passionate or eager to share what’s on her mind before the trillions of other things she keeps in there intervene and ruin it for her. That has happened a few times and I have to tell you, overwhelmed Roxanne has almost drilled holes on my pages with her pen. Yikes. My distant cousins, photo albums, have this reputation for being the best way to never forget moments. Roxanne will tell you that writing is the best way to never forget anything. Small moments, big feelings, fleeting thoughts, life-changing memories, everything can be accessed at any time if you write it down.

When she’s bored her pen turns into a snail, slowly moving around on my lines, tickling me, its only purpose to turn the nothingness of boredom into something, anything. Sometimes she’ll betray me for her laptop or – how millennial! – for her phone’s app called Notes. My e-cousin if you will. That’s ok though, I know she needs that too.

There is this story going around in my family for centuries in notebook years, almost 26 in human years, about my owner and how much she has needed our kind since she learned how to write at the age of 6. Her grandfather gave her a notebook because she would not stop bothering him about how she wanted to be like him. Roxanne’s grandfather was this iconic figure, who smelled like a forest. He was and still is the bravest man Roxanne has ever seen. He was over 60 when he started wearing his three-piece turquoise gray suit and his thick glasses to go to various events to present his poems and stories. And he would do that, a man who had been to school for only 3 years, just enough to learn how to read and write, in a small town where everybody knows you and sees you every day. His love for writing and communicating through stories was so intense, nothing could stop him. Is it obvious that Roxanne was fascinated by him? He noticed that (and also she wouldn’t shut up) and gave her this notebook, black and white stripes on the cover with a red frame to write your name inside, told her to write a poem and then made her stand on a chair to practice. She still remembers the feeling and it can be described as similar to drinking a glass of fresh, cold water on a hot July morning. Much needed and good for you.

These days, Roxanne writes and gets paid for it, but she writes for advertising. Writing with the intention of selling something or “telling the brand’s story” (whatever that means, I’ve heard Roxanne say she has no idea what that is either), sounds like you have to beg for that glass of water. Many times I’ve felt that Roxanne has used me to get away from the feeling of selling out her soul for a salary. But what do I know? I’m just a notebook trying to write for the first time! Keep on using my brothers and sisters.

Regards,
Roxanne’s Notebook (#20159)