Hello good people of WordPress and the world!
Yes, yes my blogging habits have been sporadic at best recently. A thousand apologies and thanks to you all for sticking with me.
Today I wish to talk about a very serious addiction I have been living with since the age of 11…..journaling. There is nothing more exciting than the feeling of a fresh new notebook in ones hands, full of crisp blank pages just waiting to be filled with meaningless thoughts and words. The first scratch of the pen on the page sends shivers down one’s spine and the joy of looking back over the cluttered pages brings a feeling of satisfaction like none other. Unfortunately, it is an expensive habit, as I realised today after purchasing two more new journals that do not fit into my limited budget. But there they were, just sitting amongst a basket of beautiful friends, on sale I might add. It would have been rude not to buy them right? I mean, one was the last of its kind and our first meeting brought a smile to my face, upon seeing the amusing front cover (picture below). It was begging me to fill it with my thoughts and terrible handwriting. I had to have it. As the sales girl announced the total, my heart sank a little. But one can never have to many notebooks…
As much as I try rationalise my purchase, I know it is a problem. What is it about fresh notebooks that I cannot resist? I mean, between blogging, notes on my iPhone and sketch books, you would think I had enough places to right down my thoughts, which honestly are not very interesting to anyone besides myself. It is always the same process however. I buy a new journal, promising that this will be the one I use and write in all the live long day and it shall be wonderful, inspired and worthy of publishing for its life-changing revelations…hmmm. Funnily enough, never works out like that.
When I first dabbled in the art of journalling, I was a young pre-teen and had just read Anne Frank’s diary. Initially, I liked the thought that the diary was like a friend, a store for my deepest “secrets”, such as they were age 11 (mainly who I fancied). But I found as I wrote, as I grew up and life got significantly more complicated, the pages of my overly decorated notebooks were perfect places to arrange my worries. To sort through the mess of whatever I was struggling with and when I would read back over it, the problem always seemed considerably smaller and ordered. Now, when I read the rantings of ages 13-15, I laugh at what I considered important to write about but am also moved and reminded about where I have come from, what I have gone through. Journals are full of sadness, laughter, terrible spelling, forgotten pictures and it is all the more poignant because it was written by me, in my own hand. I cannot deny where I came from because it is forever encased in a beautiful notebook.
And maybe the reason I so enjoy buying new journals is because they are symbolic of a fresh start. Whatever happen in the previous volumes of my little life, can be left there as future unspoiled pages allow for any new adventure. To take what you have learned about yourself, from yourself and use it to create even better journals.
In conclusion, I shall not regret my new purchases, even though my bank account might. These new journals will be filled with precious moments from the fast approaching start of Year 2 at Warwick (AHHH), with funny stories and hopes for the future. I promise the addiction will be put to good use.
Of course if they sit there for months just looking pretty, I may have to seek professional help…
If you don’t journal, be cautious about starting. But also think of all the beautiful notebooks you could fill…