I got this hoping it would encourage me to start writing more, to jot down my thoughts as they come to me. Instead, it's still pristine. I'm afraid to sully it with my pathetic, plebian dribblings. It was supposed to turn me into Jane Austen or Dr Seuss, instead it has me cowering in the corner, pen clutched in my shaking hands, muttering to myself about how I am no Hemingway, what was I thinking, somewhere Neil Gaiman is laughing at me while sitting on his piles of money and bats or whatever it is he does.
In other words, this is the nicest, most well-made notebook I have ever owned. I am not worthy.