I have this bad habit where I really like buying blank notebooks. There’s something about holding a totally blank notebook that gives hope about the future. It’s a blank slate; its purpose has yet to be determined. Perhaps it will hold the sketches of the next great artist, or the thoughts of the next great philosopher. Perhaps it will hold the mathematical equations that will explain the world around us in a way that will deepen our understanding of it more that anything else in the past. Perhaps it will be used to write the rough draft of the next best selling novel, or a history that will preserve and important part of our past. Whatever it will hold, there’s no doubt of one thing: the potential represented by its plain white pages is great. Unfortunately, just having a blank notebook doesn’t guarantee its use. In my stack of office supplies, I have several of them, just sitting there, waiting to be used. I bought them in hopes that I could do something that would perhaps meet that potential they have. At first, they sat on my desk, staring at me, pleading for use. Occasionally, I would take one, and open it up, meaning to start to write something, anything. I would sit at my desk with the notebook in front of me, open to that first page. I had a mason jar of freshly sharpened pencils beside it to aid me in my quest. And the notebook sat there, and the pencils sat there, and nothing happened. Eventually I would get up, and replace the notebook in it’s unused position. One day, I got tired of the stares, and relegated the notebooks, pencils, and other creative tools to the closet. Perhaps I’ve purchased in vain? Perhaps I’ve not anything to offer the world? I refuse to accept that. I have a purpose, and those notebooks will be used.