The pages between its covers a pristine white. The kind of white that is either terrifying or exciting. The kind of white that begs to be drawn on, written on, smeared in ink on. The pages beg to have something glued to them, stapled to them, attached to them. Drawings, notes, remarks. Journal entries. Phone numbers, addresses, the info found on the web. Photographs will soon be tucked into its pages for safe keeping. And the recipe for the Orange Cookies that my mother sent me for Christmas will also hide there.
Daily snippets, doodles, sketches.
A new sketchbook sits on the end of the bed, waiting. Waiting for me to make the first mark.