Tuesday, March 13, 2012 | By: Brianna

The Notebook (but not the one you're thinking)

Today I thought I'd free write based on a first line that I had to write for my fiction class.


The notebook was wedged between two editions of the Encyclopedia Britannica and it looked like it hadn't moved until years.  Until now.  I didn't even notice it until I pulled an encyclopedia off the shelf and it attacked me.  When I say "it," I mean the notebook.  It propelled itself at my face and the corner hit me square in my forehead.  No doubt I would have a bruise between my eyes.

Rubbing the spot, I bent down to pick up my assailant, taking special note of the marbled cover.  It was a classic Mead composition book that was worn around the edges.  The binding seemed to be detaching itself from the cover and the majority of the pages were covered in a spidery spindly handwriting.  It looked like a line of spiders had been smashed between the pages, and on nearly every page.

I'm not one to intrude upon a person's personal affairs, but when faced with a notebook that was in a public library, I could definitely argue that it was public property.  At this point, I could consider this notebook just another library book.  Public property.  So basically, I was completely within my rights when I opened it and read a couple pages.

It was good stuff.  As it turns out, it was a personal journal about someone's life.  Some girl talking about her break up with some guy and how she was coping.  There were even a couple of really good lines describing her make outs with various men in bars.  And every now and again there were sections where she made out with other women.  Apparently this writer was a wild woman after she got rid of that ball and chain of hers.  But she kept going back to thinking about her old guy.  When she had been having so much fun with her random hook-ups and nights out with the girls, she kept thinking about the guy.

I sat down on the floor of the aisle, leaning up against one of the bookshelves.  Barely anyone came down this aisle, so it wasn't like I'd be in the way.  I felt like I should have had a bowl of popcorn to go with this fascinating read.  The writer was starting to have difficulty with her job when I realized that I should probably get home before my roommate started calling the cops and my parents (in that order) to report that I was missing.  I shoved the notebook into my bag and bustled out of the library, walking the half a mile to my apartment.  At least back home I could have some of that popcorn.

"You ask me if I keep a notebook to record my great ideas.  I've only ever had one."
- Albert Einstein


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