There's something oddly charming about it, he finds; awkward, perhaps, but charming nonetheless. He is a fairly private man, for the most part, if a friendly one, and it isn't all that often that people actually ask these kinds of questions.

"For myself." He has never even thought about publication, truthfully. His brother used to suggest it, when he was alive; but since Boromir's death, that's something he's pushed to the back of his mind all over again. "I can't imagine that what I have to offer is exciting enough to push anyone else off the shelves. Besides, it's..." Personal. That's what it boils down to, in the end. Some of what is in that notebook is, by his own assessment, neutral to the point of trite: musings on weather and landscapes and abstract thoughts. Most of it is rather more raw.

He clears his throat, and offers her a smile. "It isn't particularly polished, let's say."