The inconvenience, the awkwardness, the much slower pace at which I can get my thoughts down...
I've had a selection of small notebooks in the drawer of my bedside cabinet for ages, still snuggly wrapped in their cellophane jackets. Nothing as flashy as a Moleskine but that doesn't matter.
I've made the effort of buying new pens, nice pens that feel good in the hand. One sits wistfully on top of my bedside cabinet, separated from those notebooks by an inch of wood and the Scott Sigler novel it rests upon.
They are no good to anyone separated like this so I get one out of the drawer, unwrap it, and place it ready for use should inspiration strike. It's only small, incredibly pocket sized, and I wonder if that's part of the problem.
Small notebooks can be hard to write in comfortably whilst fitting only a little on each page. Am I unintentionally hamstringing myself with such choices? Am I more likely to write by hand if it is an easier experience?
Does size matter?
I often vow to make more of an effort, that this time will be different. It never is, never has been. At least not yet!
Perhaps it never will but that doesn't mean I should stop trying.