On the flight to New York, I started reading a book, “The Notebook: A History of Thinking on Paper” by Roland Allen. I had read a Wall Street Journal review about the book. As someone who keeps a notebook and still makes notes and thinks on paper, the book was too good to resist!
From the review: “A fresh notebook exudes strange power. If you have ever opened one, perhaps while sitting at a sidewalk cafe, you will know the rising sense of possibility that comes with what Mr. Allen calls “the infinite potential of the blank page.” It is as though the unmarked paper is summoning something—an idea, a verse, a drawing—that might otherwise have stayed inside your head, undeveloped. A notebook thus becomes an extension of the self. Perhaps it is your deep personal self and you are writing down your emotions and experiences in a diary (or “egodocument,” as present-day academics have it). Perhaps it is your professional maritime self and you are documenting longitude and latitude in a ship’s log on a sea journey; or perhaps it is any number of aspects of yourself expressed in one of the other variants of notebook that Mr. Allen has discovered.”
From the book’s introduction: “You don’t need me to tell you what a Moleskine looks like, but you may not have considered how insistently its design sends messages to the ‘Contemporary Nomad’. The minimal black cover looks, at first glance, like it might be leather: robust, but also luxurious. The non-standard dimensions, a couple of centimetres narrower than the familiar A5, let you slip the notebook into a jacket pocket, and the rounded corners – which add considerably to the production cost – help with this. They also stop your pages from getting dog-eared and, together with the elastic strap and unusually heavy cover boards, confirm that the notebook is ready for travel. The edges of the board sit flush with the page block, ensuring that your Moleskine can never be mistaken for a printed book. In use, it lies obediently open and flat, and the pocket glued into the back cover board invites you to hide souvenirs – photos, tickets stubs, the phone numbers of beautiful strangers. Two hundred pages suggest that you have plenty to write about; the paper itself, tinted to a classy ivory shade and unusually smooth to the touch, implies that your ideas deserve nothing but the best, and the ribbon marker helps you navigate your musings. Discreetly minimal it may seem, but the whole package is as shot through with brand messaging as anything labelled Nike, Mercedes or Apple – and like the best cues, the messaging works on a subconscious level.”
I can attest to the power of a blank page. I have a 300-page ruled spiral notebook that I use for all my notes and thoughts. I complete one book in about two weeks. My notebook is always with me – it’s like a friend who is always around to talk with. I write everything; it helps keep the mind free. This practice has become an integral part of my daily routine and creative process. The act of putting pen to paper allows me to externalise my thoughts, giving them a tangible form outside my mind. It’s not just about recording ideas; it’s about exploring them, connecting disparate concepts, and often stumbling upon unexpected insights. Whether I’m brainstorming business strategies, reflecting on personal experiences, or simply jotting down observations about the world around me, my notebook serves as both a canvas for my thoughts and a time capsule of my intellectual journey. The physical act of writing seems to engage my brain differently than typing on a device (which I am not good at in real-time in meetings). Writing on paper often leads to more nuanced thinking and deeper reflection.
In many ways, my notebook has become an extension of my cognitive processes, a trusted companion in my quest for clarity and creativity. It is my Digital Twin.
Also see: Parts 3-5 from My Life System series.
