Paper Notebooks

It’s no secret that I love pens, so of course I have a lot of opportunity to use paper. In my illustration I use Strathmore smooth finish Bristol. I was taught that I was supposed to prefer kid finish, but it seems too toothy to me; too easy to tear up. Maybe it’d work out if you’re doing all of your work in brush, but metal pens tear that stuff to shreds. And I’ve never thought about it that much. Pads of Bristol aren’t cheap, but they aren’t precious either. It’s always been a utilitarian decision without much romance attached.

Writing notebooks are another story. There’s an incredible amount of hype surrounding writing notebooks, and I’ve tended to view the hysteria as somewhat curious. I cannot sit in any judgememt of course, I do have romantic attachment to stationary. I very much like my old stand-by, Crane’s 32 lb 100% cotton «executive» sheets in Pearl or Ecru White. On the other end of the spectrum is Eaton’s air mail paper, a 9 lb 25% cotton stock that’s nearly transparent and delicate like a butterfly’s wing. I also have a small variety of stocks purchased by the sheet from Flax and some lovely translucent letter-size stock that will hold ink neither from a fountain pen nor from an inkjet printer. Suffice it to say that I buy correspondence stock in much greater quantities than I send out in correspondence.

So believe me, I’m sympathetic and more than a little curious about the great popularity of specialty journals and notebooks. There are the Moleskine faithful, the Levenger fans, all with their justifications for spending fifteen to fifty dollars for a notebook, and of course a nearly infinite supply of refillable (usually) leather journals. And you can’t forget those orange Rhodia notepads.

Some have claimed that the paper in these premium notebooks isn’t really all that much better than that found in common composition books. Now I’ve gotta say that I’ve gone through my share of Mead composition books, and for a couple of bucks nothing beats ’em. There are some specialty varieties, but the plain Mead «composition» seems to be the best. The «Grad» has a very nice durable cover, but the pages are too thin to write on both sides even with a ballpoint. It’s important, too, to inspect the labels. Some say «Made in the USA» and others are «Made in China». I don’t know if it’s possible to get an American-made Mead notebook anymore, but my 1994 (USA) Mead composition book is a bright white, where all my 2001 and 2004 (Chinese) Mead composition books have started to yellow. So hey, maybe fat, lazy, spoiled Union workers really do put out better products than Chinese convicts and twelve-year-old slaves. I know. Radical idea, isn’t it?

(I meant to draw a comparison between the Mead notebooks and the variety of Walgreens house-brand notebooks, but looking more closely, the Penway (US-made) notebook has a decent, smooth feel to it. (Chinese-made) Corner Office notebooks are like lined newsprint. The Penway isn’t as good as the better Mead composition books I have, but perhaps I should be looking more at the country of origin rather than the brand name.)

To satisfy my own curiosity, I spent what seems like an obscene amount of money on premium notebooks. I bought a variety of Moleskines, a Clairefontaine, and a Miquelrius. I didn’t bother with the «premium» journals from Cavallini. I’ve used them before. Wonderful bindings, crappy paper. ‘Nuff said, I’m afraid.

Already, this seems insane. I’ve never put this much thought into purchasing sketchbooks, and I’ve always gotten paper far superior to what’s found in most composition books. Maybe that’s the answer for the journal snobs out there. Give up needing lined paper, and suddenly good paper is easy and relatively inexpensive. Cachet makes the ubiquitous black hardcover sewn-binding sketchbook filled with 70 lb ph-neutral paper for ten bucks, and last I checked New Jersey has labor laws that prevent using petty criminals as slave labor. That compares nicely to the price of the «premium» notebooks I bought. But I digress.

I won’t write about the Moleskines quite yet, as I have more arriving this week. I haven’t written anything in the Clairefontaine notebook I picked up and cannot yet comment. That leaves the Miquelrius.

I’ve written at least a page with each of my fountain pens (and some that don’t belong to me) in my black Miquelrius notebook and have a pretty good feel for it. Miquelrius’s website is a lovely example of Web design for Web designers, specifically for the designers that designed the Miquelrius website. Anyone else should stay away. The whole thing is Flash and has wonderful transparent effects and sliding menus and is, of course, totally devoid of information. Thankfully Pendemonium has the information I wanted: yes, the paper is acid-free. The company supposedly guarantees the paper to endure for a century. That I couldn’t find this information on Miquelrius’s site is further evidence against hiring Web designers who are in love with their fancy effects.

Anyway, the notebook’s got a durable cover and end papers, which I can’t help but think is a classy touch. I don’t like the feel of the cover that much; it’s a textured flexible plastic that wants to feel like leather but ends up just feeling slick. The actual paper is clean white, reasonably opaque but not brilliant. If it really stays like that for a hundred years, you can’t go too far wrong with it. I wrote «reasonably opaque» because yes, you can see my writing on the opposite side of the leaf. It’s not distracting and certainly acceptable, but not as opaque as I’d prefer.

The paper is smooth and appears durable. Good pens glide across it well. There is a hint of texture to it, like gravel beneath a well-tuned suspension. It’s enough to provide a tactile experience, but it’s nothing that will bump you out of your seat. It’s ruled a bit wide for my taste, but that’s just a matter of preference. Compared to the Mead paper, this is smoother. If the claims of longevity are true, this would be a good notebook for writing one would want to keep for posterity. I like the elastic band that holds the cover shut as well. It’s a nice touch. At ten or eleven dollars each, you can get three Mead composition books for the price, but you have to give some consideration to the historians who will be reading your journals after you’re dead.

While I remain somewhat cynical about the idea of premium notebooks, ten dollars instead of three or four is really not bad considering the paper quality, durability, the nice extras, and supporting the economy of a country where the workers get afternoon naps instead of a country where the workers might avoid a beating if they do a good enough job.