"It would," Solomon said with a nod. "The pages on which you write don't necessarily have to be bound, though you may find it more difficult to retain or connect the knowledge together. In the subconscious, a bound book would represent something a touch more ... cohesive than otherwise."

Actually, the fact the teen couldn't manifest a book, but pages, said something about his psychology. For whatever reason, he seemed to have trouble connecting thoughts together--not obviously, but enough that concentration was an effort. Dyslexia or something similar, if Solomon recalled correctly; mental states hadn't had much in the way of name or description when he'd been born.

"Fortunately there is no limit to the pages you can create, here," he said dryly, manifesting his own utensils--a fountain pen and inkpot. They weren't what he meant to create, but they were an image of the ones his father had owned, and personal. Possibly Frank's explanation of the rocking-chair had influenced him. Either way, it meant that he could pull the empty journal and Frank's notes closer, and being his transcription. "If you need help with the interpretation, feel free to ask."