BitterSweetLife

A line-up of my previous journals appreciatively eyes the newcomer.

Last week saw a momentous occasion unfold, as I opened the cover of a new notebook and began scribbling.

In the past, I’ve always preferred the cheap, spiral-bound variety, the type you don’t feel bad about throwing in a pack, spilling coffee on, jotting illegible notes in. A journal shouldn’t limit a man’s expression by its quality. In my mind, that’s the problem with the elitist “Journals” (note capital J) lining the walls at Barnes & Noble, Border’s, and other “literary” establishments. They tend to be too ornate to write in. They tend to be too (shudder) pretty.

An author can be repressed by the considerable influences of such a Journal. His line of reasoning goes like this:

“My thoughts aren’t as crisp and flamboyant as this Journal, so I’ll wait until later… I’ll write that idea down until after I finish my coffee… In a while, my mind will spontaneously host more noble sentiments; I’ll write stuff then.”

This is why so many Journals lie unused in drawers. It’s a case of snobbery, the Journals snubbing their would-be authors. Instead, a journal should be rugged and highly useable. On the same pages should reside the perfect sentiments of a wondrous love poem—and the first 17 drafts of that love poem. You don’t go to the Book Nook to buy a journal…you go to Target.

Last week, though, I turned over a new leaf. The leaf was cardboard with a tasteful blue binding and matching elastic snap-around thingy. I almost shudder admit it, but there it is. I own a snobbish journal. It’s not pretty, but it has excessive class.

Fortunately, I paid next to nothing for it, which in my mind justifies this lapse. I’ve already spilled some coffee on it and begun scrawling on the first several pages. I am happy to report that the journal is no longer a Journal.

Another era of vigorous life-transcription has begun.