Jess, dear one, had brought me this lovely gift to our lunch date Monday. It’s a huge, delightful embroidered book with thick gilded pages, velvet cover, tasseled bookmark. I love it; I almost want to take a bite out of it. In the store I would have admired something so decadent, but would never have bought it for myself. What a gift!
Now, the question is: what do I put in it? I know she meant it for my writing, but this book carries such weight, such luxury, it simply can’t be a practice book full of scribbles and crossing-outs. It deserves more. A fantasy, a delicious novel, some gorgeous lines of poetry. I want to write somewhere else and then copy in a finished product worthy of the accoutrements.