A blank book

I have a beautifully hand bound blank book given to me by a dear and old friend for my 30th birthday. I put it in my sock drawer on a pretty tray. But I haven't written in it. I might think of something clever, quick, or insightful and consider writing on that first page of thick many. But I don't. I am too scared of writing the wrong thing. The first page could determine everything, I assume. I don't want to ruin the book.