The Great Notebook Sentimentality Post (That No One Asked For on December 24th)

While the rest of Quebec is busy roasting turkeys or dodging extended family conversations, I’m here with something different: a long, passionate, unsolicited love letter… to notebooks and planners.

Yep. On this December 24th, when absolutely no one asked, I’ve decided it’s tiiiiiiiiiiiiime!

Because while some people mark the holidays with carols or cozy Hallmark films, I mark mine with test pen scribbles, paper caresses, and the annual assessment of my highlighter situation (fine, Hallmark films are also a guilty pleasure, but that's another story for another day). The season isn’t real until I’ve made a shortlist of what will carry me through the coming year — emotionally, organizationally, and aesthetically.

Let’s begin where it all started.

Cahiers Canada & Cringe Planners: A Timeline

If you grew up in Québec, chances are you remember the classic Cahiers Canada — wide-ruled, questionably perforated, and always on the brink of unravelling. That was my gateway drug.

Then came the school-issued agenda in high school — loud, holographic, and wildly unsexy (think flying saucers and motivational quotes that had no business being printed in Comic Sans).

But I didn't really choose a notebook until my first art history class in university. I remember walking into Papeterie Nota Bene, a holy site for us paper romantics, and buying a Japanese notebook with the silkiest paper I'd ever touched. That day, I became that person. The kind who buys a fresh notebook before every new chapter of life — a semester, a project, a rebirth.

If you know, you know.

Every start of a new semester, I made the pilgrimage to Nota Bene with my friend Colette. We’d browse slowly, pick the one that felt right, and sip coffee with the satisfaction of having started this new season on the right foot — with the right paper.

And this year? Colette bought a notebook from me. One I made with my own hands.

Reader, I nearly cried.

My Name Is Sarah, and I’m a Planner Loyalist (…until I wasn’t)

For nearly 15 years, I swore monogamy to the Large Softcover Weekly Moleskine. We were solid. Until I dared to stray. I tried an undated planner once — a Petrantoni Moleskine that looked stunning, but oh, the chaos.

Let’s just say: if you’ve never had white-out-related panic attacks from accidentally skipping a week in July, I envy your freedom.

Eventually, I realized: I needed structure with soul. Paper with purpose. Something designed by someone who actually uses a planner. And since I couldn’t find what I wanted, I made it.

Cue: L’Éphéméride. The planner I always needed but didn’t know I could create. With space to plan and reflect. With a structure that respects seasons instead of sprinting through them. With blank space to feel like a human, not a productivity machine.

The Notebook & The Planner: A Love Story in Two Volumes

Since high school, I’ve kept two sacred objects in my bag at all times:

• A planner (for the official stuff — deadlines, grocery lists, birthdays, coffee orders, “remember to text back” reminders).

• A notebook (for the chaos — project ideas, travel itineraries, mid-sleep doodles, baby shower gift lists, and Writuals brainstorming scribbled while holding Rosalie at 2 a.m.).

Both are deeply personal and totally off-limits to anyone else. My inner world lives there — and she’s not taking visitors.

I don’t collect notebooks just to look at them. That would be criminal. I collect them with the intention of using every single one — when the moment and project are right. Choosing the right one is a ritual. Paper weight? Must feel like a silk robe. Binding? Better be loyal. Cover? Needs to age like a good leather boot.

When one is full, I say goodbye to it with reverence. I keep them for three years, then let them go. Except a few sacred ones. You know the type.

My Festive End-of-Year Ritual (It’s Not Eggnog)

Every December, I sit down with my planner and my pen collection — Stabilo highlighters, LePen micro-fine markers, maybe the odd Sharpie in a niche colour. I test them all. I bid farewell to the dried-out soldiers. I restock. I prepare.

Some people make tourtières.
I do stationery inventory.
This is who I am.

I’ve been flirting with the idea of fountain pens. There’s something beautifully whimsical about choosing your own ink colour like you're preparing a love potion. (If you have good recommendations for this — hit me up.)

I give myself this moment. A solo ritual to reflect on how I’ve grown. What I want to plan for. What I want to feel in the next twelve months.

Planning Is My Love Language

Ever since becoming a mom and launching Writuals in the same 18-month span (chaotic? yes. poetic? also yes), my paper goods have become a lifeline.

My brain? Cloudy with a chance of toddler.

My planner? My weather app for the soul.

I don't remember everything like I used to, and that's okay — because my planner remembers for me. It’s where I pour my intentions, plans, to-dos, forgotten dreams, and unexpected joys. It’s my co-pilot, my timekeeper, my creative sanctuary.

And now that I’ve designed my own? I’m finally living in the planner world I once dreamed of — one where there’s room for you and your weird, beautiful, real life.

Full Circle (with a Wire-O Binding)

That moment with Colette — her picking out one of my notebooks, not just because she’s my friend but because she wanted it — that was the moment I felt it all come full circle.

Years ago, we wandered through aisles of paper goods like they were sacred relics.
Now, one of those relics came from my own hands.

And that’s the magic of this project. This brand. This planner. This stack of imperfectly beautiful, intentionally made, locally printed, eco-friendly, heart-heavy tools for living.

They’re not just notebooks.
They’re paper portals to who you are and who you’re becoming.

Let’s Wrap This (Like a Gift)

So no, this isn’t your typical December 24th blog post.

But it is my love letter to the objects that have held me through chaos, change, creativity, and coffee spills.

To every planner I’ve ever scribbled in.
To every notebook I’ve cried into.
To every pen that made me feel like I had my life together (even just for a second).
To every idea that came to life on a blank page.

May your writing be smudge-free.
Your covers sturdy.
Your paper smooth.
And your planning full of kindness.

From my desk, mid-chaos but always with love —
Sarah B.
Founder, Atelier scriptural Writuals