MY LEATHER JOURNAL

I write almost every night in a brown leather book—one of a number I had made in Italy when I was working for a travel company—thinking they would make great gifts or items for people taking long journeys. Since they are made in Europe they are made in metric "A" sizes which means the books are taller than our eight and one-half by eleven inch letter size. I like the slightly longer page, which gives me space for four or five more lines or a couple of sentences. I feel like I get a bonus when I’m approaching the bottom of the page—I still have room for another thought or even two. The A size page fits my process. I think we all write, to a certain extent, to fit the space we’re dealing with. Even when I begin a novel, I have three or four hundred pages in mind—hey, I’m not Tolstoy!

There is something about pen scratching on paper that I like. It’s tactile. And pages that turn with the fingers, I like that also. I like the way the side of my hand moves across the page following my thoughts. In a way, the book is alive. It moves to the touch and bends under pressure. It has shape and texture and form.

I think I love the leather cover most of anything. I love the dark brown color and the smell of the leather—For whatever reason, I often pause in my writing to bring the book up against my nose just to breathe in the smell of the leather. The leather is fairly thick. It’s real—not the processed kind made of leather pulp that is used on most covers these days. The cover is cut from a single piece, which wraps around the spine where the pages are bound.

The paper is a warm, yellowish tint of white. It is not ultra smooth, nor is it a fake ultra white. When held up to the light, the pages reveal a subtle calendering—horizontal lines which I know come from the machines on which the paper pulp is dried. It is acid free which means it will retain its original color over time. In its simplicity, the paper pretends to be nothing more than it is.

I am writing on this journal now—the book propped against my right leg, as I lay back in bed. My left leg supports the book some, as well as my ankle which rests against my right knee at a 90 degree angle. And the book, rather than sitting hard and rigid, bends to fit, to accommodate this situation like it does for many others.

On the cover of this particular journal is embossed a map of Antarctica. This journal was made for a trip I took more than five years ago. A trip to the "Eighth Continent" deserves its own personal journal. But then, so do most of our own personal thoughts. A journal like this make our thoughts even more precious; longer lasting. It imbues them with quality and import.

I just stopped here—at this logical spot—now I’m a few inches, still, from the bottom of the page. I pause to smell the leather. After all, that’s what writing is all about—isn’t it? Describing the way something looks and feels and smells so someone else will understand and share in the experience.