I came across a blog post by this week’s addict, who has an explanation for her problem:
I blame my mother — and not just because Freud told me to. When I was little, there was a small chain of paper good/office supply stores in our city, and my mother used to take my brother and me there for a treat when we were out shopping. They had boxes and boxes of all sorts of fancy paper and row upon row of notebooks, pens, pencils… Well, you get the idea. In early August (school shopping time!), my mother would take us to the big flagship store at the other end of town to get our supplies, and I always had the coolest of anybody in school. I remember notebooks with fuzzy covers, textured covers that I could do pencil rubbings on, colored paper, scented paper, the sorts of things that my own child’s school now won’t allow anywhere near the premises.
Read more at FunkyPeanut World: My Paper Addiction.