The sacrilege of my sweet sweet Moleskine

When I was nine years old, I was a volunteer at the computer lab in my elementary school. I worked with a very large and rather affable teacher by the name of Mr. Caplan. I would help wipe down the monitors and the keyboards of the thirty or so Apple Macintosh IIs set in four rows, atop cheap yet sturdy brown folding tables. I went to school early and help Mr. Caplan clean and straighten out the lab, pushing chairs in, wiping the dusty tops of monitors and polishing their glass screens. As time wore on, I got to know Mr. Caplan, and we became friends.

December snuck up on me and on the last day of school before the winter recess, Mr. Caplan surprised me. He handed me a gift that was exquis­itely wrapped, asking me to open it. I was delighted at the discovery of what lay beneath that fancy ribbon and festive paper. It was a hard­cover journal. My eyes were imme­di­ately drawn to the shiny smooth cover that depicted wispy hand-drawn animals from the African Savannah. Lions and zebras myste­ri­ously rose from blades of grass that were drifting and swaying in the warm breeze of a setting sun, all set on a sleepy smooth beige back­ground. I remember holding the solidly built journal, feeling that I had just obtained some­thing important. Why it was important was beyond my youthful years. Despite that fourth grade igno­rance, I felt a deep sense of grat­itude. Mr. Caplan was a very insightful person, and this gift to me reflected that intu­ition. He knew that I was a gifted writer because he was friends with my teacher, Ms. Cannone. That was the reason he gave me the journal: to encourage me to write. I remember the twin­kling spark in his eyes and the wide expres­sively uncon­trolled smile he had on his face when he told me that he hoped to see the pages of my new journal filled with my wonderful writing.

That was the first journal I ever used. I carried that with me for four years, even though I was never a big fan of animals. For those four years, I kept very good care of it. I respected it and even revered it to a certain extent. To this day I still have it. And although I did not write in it as much as I would’ve liked (the lines were not college ruled), I always made sure to remember the reason that it was given to me.

My search for a proper vessel for my literary thoughts started more than ten years ago. I knew the impor­tance of having the right tools for the job. The same way labeling theory can subtly influence bad kids to become crim­inals, having a journal that you enjoy writing in and a pen that you enjoy writing with can influence you to become a better (or at least more prolific) writer. The right kind of journal can evoke a literary sense, igniting sparks of inspiration.

The Mole­skine is a journal whose cover is bound in oilcloth, a leathery looking material. Its pages are acid-free and smooth, a gentle off-white that is easy on the eyes and the pen. I was one of the first to start using them, at least here in America. I first ordered them on the Internet, before they were easily available at popular stores like Barnes and Noble. I knew of their history as one of the favorite note­books of famous writers and artists of a different era: an era when quality and crafts­manship were valued, an era when things were made lovingly by hand, a product whose superior construction was worth more than its value in currency. Henry Chatwin knew this: when he found out that the sole provider of his beloved note­books was going out of business, he went and bought up as many as he could. That’s exactly the same thing that I would do.

I love my Mole­skine notebook. The black oilcloth evokes a sense of privacy, even mystery. The bookmark whose ever so slightly purple sheen serves as a reminder that no matter how fast and far life forges ahead, your words and thoughts will forever be recorded on those cream colored pages. I use my Mole­skine notebook for my creative endeavors, at times when I must scribble down with ferocity the glimpses of future char­acters or bursts of drama, lest they float into the misty realm of the forgotten. The simple yet elegant design of the Mole­skine has served the needs of creative minds for years.

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