Prologue

It was just a notebook.

Granted, it was gifted to me at a very young age I care not to share, but it was still just a notebook. With a dark leather that coated the hard covers, between them were more than two hundred, forearm lengthed papers, a pale cream in color with not a spot of color -- not even writing lines. Perfect for a jack of all trades.

It even came with a pen, though normal ink, resembled a fountain pen.

Yet, I never dared to touch it. Everyday, I would open it and stare at the pages, imagining wonderful things I would put on the pages, the words, the colors, the pictures. I couldn't get myself to bring the tip of the pen upon the pages, to mar the beautiful crisp leaves.

Soon, my daily habit lessened, until I just forgot about it. It then lay at the bottom of my drawers, replaced with new notebooks, with better pens, with magazines, with articles, fashion pictures . . .

My life changed, rather than little person whose only comfort was writing, I became an author, a real one, with at least three books to my name, an artist in my free time. I soon moved out of my childhood home in Manhattan to a cozy, two-story house on the beach-side of Cali, when I was only in my early twenties.

And, of course, my mother insisted I take my 'junk' with me, said she was doing a spring cleaning, taking the chance of my leave. Most of my stuff left in garage sales, Amazon, gifts, taken over by my sister's five children (two sets of twins and one lonely girl). Only a few were left with me, like the cute lamp I would place on my side-table, a few childhood knickknacks . . .

As well as the notebook, and that placed itself upon my desk in my bedroom. I barely paid it any mind, until . . .