All my sketchbooks have covers, some of them more successful than other. The discerning neurotic refuses to craft a cover for months at a time, hoping for that “a-ha!” moment where a great idea skitters across the Tranquility Seas of the frontal lobes, and gets out the rubber cement and goes to work, ultimately horrified and embarassed to lug the thing around a few more months with the monstrosity scrawled over the front.