I've always wanted to be someone who reaches for their notebook instead of their phone to take notes; who rejects the speed of technology in exchange for the creative potential of analog tools; who doesn't mind if something takes extra effort because they know it means the importance of the exercise.

It's true that analog tools can seem counterproductive - no instant sync, no updates or backups, and even slower to use - but slowing down can give us much more: peace of mind, reflection, creative fulfillment, deeper understanding. We already know that in the creative and intellectual life, speed is rarely an advantage. 

Take the technique of speed reading, for example. A technique that every bookworm wants to master, but is unaware of the consequences. But we now know, thanks to a lot of research, that people can actually read very fast, but at a price: the faster we read, the less we understand. For me, the same principle goes for writing and thinking.

Besides the desire to slow down, I have always been fascinated by the note-taking habits of great thinkers. The observations of Leonardo da Vinci, who expressed his curiosity in his notebooks; the sudden ideas of Ludwig van Beethoven, whose biographer Wilhelm Von Lenz wrote in 1855:

When Beethoven was enjoying a beer, he might suddenly pull out his notebook and write something in it. ‘Something just occurred to me,’ he would say, sticking it back into his pocket. The ideas that he tossed off separately, with only a few lines and points and without barlines, are hieroglyphics that no one can decipher. Thus in these tiny notebooks he concealed a treasure of ideas.