It was late September and the last of the Indian summer sun flowed through the window onto her arm as she typed furiously next to the window overlooking the garden. Every so often she would lean forward squinting at the words she had written in one of her many journals and note books that she kept for writing when she was away from the computer.
Her collection of notebooks were growing, some of them filled to capacity others with most of their crisp white pages still unmarked apart from the gentle pressings that embossed their surface from words written on previous pages. There was no pattern to her obsession, her addiction. Whenever she saw a new notebook she had to have it, regardless of whether she needed it or not. There was no question it would be put to good use at some point. For wherever she went she carried at least one notebook with her in case of inspiration and sometimes simply because the time was there to use and she filled it with the longings of her heart and the unsilenceable voices and thoughts that pounded round her mind. It was her therapy, her passion, her life and a fantasy all wrapped in the cheap cardboard casings or leather skins.
Glazing over at one of her many bookshelves she looked at her notebook collection in its wondrous variety and felt a calmness fill her. They were only a few of the many scattered about her home, containing the potential space for her to fulfil her writing dreams and she was going to do everything she could to ensure she made that dream become reality.