The title of this post is my desperate attempt to find a word to describe my problem.  Yes, I’ve got a problem, and no amount of fruit is going to resolve it.  I need something a bit more substantial, because my problem is with blank books.

Blank books beg promise much, but expect even more.
It starts out innocently enough.  You see one at a shop, its cover revealing nothing of the contents, the leaves thick against each other, like meaning yet unknown.  Maybe it had a leathery smell, or a really exotic fastener.  You discover you like them.
Of course, just liking blank books isn’t enough; that’s just a taste for a thing, not a problem with it.  Unfortunately, people in my life, the kinds of people who choose to give me gifts, also know I sort of like them, and they also know that I like writing in them.
So what’s the problem, you ask?  I like blank books, I like writing in blank books, my loved ones like gifting me with blank books . . . sounds sweet.  It is, and let me be clear — I do feel blessed by it all.  They really are full of promise, and I’m not the sort of person who is intimidated by the idea of screwing up the perfectly blank pages.
But once you’ve got more than a couple of them, you’ve got to give some serious thought as to what you want to use them for.  Over the years, I’ve used blank books for:
  • a book of shadows
  • several personal journals
  • a chart of accounts
  • notes taken at client interviews
  • practicing shorthand
And I’m far from done!  On my list of possible jobs for current and future volumes include:
My desire for blank books isn’t waning, and my ideas for their uses are not running short, but still, there are problems.  Shelf space, for one.  Remembering what they’re all for, for another — it seems so gauche to scrawl its subject on the front, as if it were a common middle-school notebook.  Then, there’s the various systems of writing and note-taking that I use in each one; I tend to experiment, and I can forget which one is used where.
Somewhere at the intersection of magic and writing are a group of bibliorasaphiliacs, people like me.  Please be patient with us as the half-filled books around us multiply at alarming speed.  There are worse problems to have, after all.

One thought on “Bibliorasaphilia

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