The sadness of finishing a notebook
I’ve been experimenting with notebook formats and sizes for years, finally settling on an A6 insert, first in a Hobonichi cover, and now in my beloved bespoke Orange Leatherworks. Lately I’ve been using a Hobonichi day-free insert, but I’ve used other A6 formats before. I like the A6 because it’s easy to position to the right side of my laptop; it does not take too much space. This little journal goes everywhere with me - I record my thoughts and ideas in it, sometimes I take meeting notes in it, write brief outlines for projects and fiction scenes; sometimes I draft poetry or sample inks. An A6 insert lasts anywhere between 2-4 months, depending on how much I’m writing. So I’ve been noticing how difficult it is to finish some of these notebooks - especially if it’s a particularly good one, like the one I’m using right now.
I wrote, “I really don’t want to finish this notebook. So many important things are documented here… including the drafting of Iterum (my private novel) and bonus scenes, my Oregon trip… I find myself writing less and less, & more compactly, because I just don’t want to finish it.”
This happened a few times before. The notebook becomes a mirror of self, an extension, an inalienable part of the body - my body of work, my body, my EDC, my thoughts; I rely on its availability to check back and reread the important things I’ve discovered earlier this year. Separating from this insert is going to be difficult, even though I will swap in the exact same Hobonichi day-free, so things will not look different, setup-wise. But there is a particular sadness to this, as if separating from a part of myself which will be filed and available, but will no longer travel with me whenever I go.
I’ve been contemplating the sadness of completing things, of letting them go. I wonder if other people feel the same way, or if it’s more usual to feel triumphant and satisfied before moving on to the next thing. I’ve completed many projects in my life, and did not (yet) complete many others. Sometimes, finishing something does feel triumphant. At other times it feels more like rain. And I love the rain, love the soothing whisper of it, love how the ground soaks it up, love how it softens time and makes space for forgetting - but it rarely feels like a triumph.