Lost

I’ve lost my notebook.

It’s not lost lost. It’s in the house. (Um, I think). I distinctly recall taking it out of my handbag whilst going . . . well, somewhere, someplace where I obviously didn’t want to chance dropping/losing/misplacing my words. Only now the safe place I stored my notebook might as well have been inside a fucking BEAR TRAP for all the good it’s done me. There’s nothing safe about being COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY MISSING.

Neither strictly a diary nor a note depository, my moleskine kind of spanned the two, a no-man’s land for thoughts and ideas about my novels, including a list of possible titles, notes about my characters – birthdays, parents’ names, education, distinctive characteristics etc. – and nonsensical free-writing. It’s 50+ pages of my tight, loopy handwriting and the surreal outpouring of the more fantastical contents of my head. It is not good that it’s been mislaid.

What bothers me most is that it was a gift from Claire, uber-BFF and rootin’, tootin’ advocate of Vikki Blake, my literary alter-ego. It probably wasn’t her intention, but this notebook? It was one of the best gifts I’ve ever had, for – intentional or not – it symbolised her belief. Her faith.

I repeat: it is not good that it’s been mislaid. Sob.