The notebook I’m currently writing in has a little golden retriever puppy playing with a ball on the cover. I ran out of writing materials on my recent travels and my daughter had an extra notebook so she let me use hers.
I feel like I need to write something really excellent in order to justify using her adorable notebook in this way. There’s a lot more pressure than I usually face even when I’m writing in a notebook that cost ten times as much as this one.
I’m often faced with the question of “Is anything I’m writing of interest to anyone else on earth?” which we might call the writer’s eternal existential question but it feels especially crucial today, so it doesn’t surprise me that the pressure has shut down my brain and therefore I can’t think of anything to write. Oh, I guess I know a thing I can write: Buy my books here.