Yesterday I left my notebook at work. Did this worry me? "Fucking freaked" does not even begin to cover it. I was numb with the intensity of my panic. I got stressed when the Male picked it up and opened it. The thought of complete strangers or workmates reading it...

(I just started shaking again at the thought, and had to stroke the recovered notebook to reassure myself. gollumgollum.)

The notebook is where I scribble ideas, jotting, snippets of writing. It's like the creative kettle. I put things in there and wait for them to simmer and bob to the surface and congeal into something edible.

I've never liked people reading over my shoulder as I wrote. In fact, I hate it. I wreak violence upon people who do so. And reading the notebook is worse than that. It's worse than seeing me naked. It's seeing my thoughts, my creativity, naked.

The very idea gives me shudders.

So I dashed out this morning, ran into work and uber-casual-like said: "Oh, I think I might have left my notebook here." And then snatched it up and clutched it to my bosom.

(gollum)