Given that my relationship with my demon muse is grounded in BDSM (and the "S" most definitely stands for both submission and sadism), he is working hard at training me. My ass still shows traces of how hard he is working. But as I can never forget, his goal is far beyond making of me an obedient little sex-and-spanking slut. I am to be a Great Poet, revered down through the generations. Therefore, my mephistophelian manager was astounded and outraged to learn that I didn't carry around a little notebook for jotting down my priceless moments of inspiration. "Off with you!" he cried. "Get thee to a stationers!" (Well, more or less...)
So after work I wended my weary way to Staples. And emerged not long after with not one but FOUR notebooks. One is my Serious Writer's notebook, covered in fairly convincing faux-leatherette for which no calf sacrificed its tender skin. It has heft, it has narrow lines, it has sort-of-gilt edging... I love it passionately. That one is now carried with me everywhere my now-decidedly-heavier fanny pack goes. The other three are lighter, spiral bound, and nowhere near as obtrusive. One lives by my bed, one in the car, and the third at my office desk where it has a more subtle presence than the notebook which will be my legacy to the future.
It's not as if I hadn't thought about getting a notebook before this. At home, I've been writing on my laptop. But elsewhere, I've been scribbling on any piece of paper I could lay my hands on, snagging a small pad from office supplies and stuffing it in the bottom drawer of my desk, and then smuggling home the sheets of passionately kinky verse which I pen for the eyes of my perverted professor alone. So I did feel the lack.
But something stopped me. Because I was no stranger to having a little notebook tucked into my bag. In an effort to curb my compulsion to e-mail the philosopher straight through the workday, I had early on acquired a compact little notebook with even narrower lines (yum) on which I would record my lunchtime musings. I'd feel as if we were spending the time together, and would float back to the office on a cloud of submission and desire. At home, if I could manage to wait that long, I would transcribe my musings into a message and relive the fantasy pleasure of lunch with my master. Those were the early days. Later there were pages of struggling with break-ups and anger and frustration, as well the first time I dared to actually write down that I loved him. One of the scariest things I ever did in that relationship was allow him to see that page when he first came down to visit.
So little notebooks had connotations for me, and I held back. Still, I had been given a direct order from my torturing tutor, one I dared not disobey. So now I have my lovely notebooks, and they fill me with pride and a sense of identity as a Real Writer. A True Poet. This is no game. Well, the fiend had already said that when he accepted my service, and I never questioned him on that. But I thought it had more to do with his view of BDSM and service and submission and all that. Now I know better. I am his pet poet princess. My notebooks prove me so.
And years from now, when some poor beleagured grad student is trying to haul a dissertation out of my collected works, she or he will be grateful for these little books that give a glimpse into the lubricious secrets of my meandering mind.