Thoughts on Paper

I have found through years of speaking to other writers that the habits of a writer can become as important as the time and ideas that go into the story itself.
When in a group of writers there are a few topics that come up in conversation almost routinely. I have been asked by countless peers where do I write? What do I write on? When do I write? All the very basic whats and whens, and yet very seldom does the question of why come up, I assume become they have their own motivations and are aware of the personal nature and almost uniformity of the answer. And because it is polite I give them my answers, even though they change without any rhythm and reason. I have no real ritual or conformity in the basic elements of putting words on paper. Yes I own many different varieties of notebooks, ranging from leather bound journals to smaller mole-skin notebooks that fit very comfortably in my coat pocket. All of these have an equal amount of words etched in their pages and I personally have never found a favorite among them. I think some look more professional then others, and I think some are fit for different types of prose but these thoughts never really inhibit what eventually ends up within the covers. I have in my possession dozens of envelopes, fliers, scraps and bar coasters with ideas, sentences and lines on them. I am sure that if provided with an ample supply of these minor items I would write as much as with any quality of notebook. These details never linger long in my mind. I have met people who insist that they can only work on a yellow legal pad, or those who delight in showing me a very elaborate journal. To these I smile and nod and will usually take out a note pad from an inside pocket and hold it to my heart.
Eventually all these words haste fully written on paper find their way into a Word document and some have started out on a electronic scrap of paper, which I have discovered is some sort of heresy in certain circles.
The where is equally as unimportant to me. When I was younger I felt that where I wrote would influence the kind of writer I would become so I would go out on these lofty walk to various secluded places. These places were always the same in terms of nature, trees, few people, but just enough to notice that I was writing dammit! and was to not be disturbed. These places made little difference in what was finally put down, if anything. It was posturing at its finest, but such was many of my youthful acts, so I hope it can be forgiven, I was a nostalgic youth with a head full of Keats and Byron.
Just now I was in need of fresh air and stepped out on to a smallish roof that hangs from underneath my bedroom window. After carefully sweeping away what can only be called a cigarette graveyard from the recently melted enclave of my roof I brought my current notebook out with my to the roof. I was careful to find a dry place to sit and taking great care (I almost slipped off once this season attempting break off a very large icicle foolishly clad only in a robe in slippers) sat down, lit another cigarette to provide a proper burial for and wrote. It was pleasant and I noted my surrounding were quite nice, the sun was setting and I watched a kitten walk through a few yards, wandering under cars to escape the many puddles that dotted the yards and streets. But this place didn't help my writing any better then the arm chair from which I am writing now.
I guess I was just wondering what others thought on this topic.

I do prefer pens though.