August 2008

The Beauty of 10-Cent Notebooks

When I was eleven or so, after reading Harriet the Spy, I bought one of those pretty little diaries with a padlock. I sat in my closet and wrote the name of my crush. I clicked the lock back on, hid the diary in a shoebox and never wrote in it again. It was too perfect for my imperfect thoughts, ideas and handwriting.

When I was in high school, one of my best friends was a big-time journaler, so I gave it another try. But I didn’t want the lock-and-key variety of diary anymore. I hoped to find freedom on the page, and not hold words prisoner.

So I biked to a gift shop near my house and bought a journal for fifteen dollars. It was square and spiral-bound, its purple cardboard cover bearing the sketch of a winged heart. I had aspirations of filling the fancy notebook with very fancy insights and poems. But when I sat down to write, only un-fancy thoughts came out. Mostly, I complained.

I felt guilty about writing raw, ugly things in such a beautiful book. And I didn’t want to write too much, because my babysitting money could bank only so many expensive journals. Slowly, carefully, I filled this book. And another and another.

I moved up in the journal world, buying fancier and fancier blank books. I think I was hoping that the elegance on the outside would somehow seep inside. I soon discovered that it doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, a journal would be so beautiful that I could not bring myself to write honestly in it.

The real trouble started with a big fat journal with French floral paper on the cover. I didn’t write in that one at all—I just glued pretty scraps of paper that I deemed worthy. The same thing happened with a blank antique daybook.

But the breaking point was when my friend Angie gave me the most beautiful journal I have ever owned, with a turquoise leather cover embossed with a gold dragonfly. A gold dragonfly! I'm not worthy. Neither are my words. Of course, when I tried to write in it I froze.

This was no good.

I decided that from then on, I would write in the simplest, cheapest spiral-bound notebooks I could find. In these humble pages, I had permission to be as ugly and honest as I needed to be, without any fear of “ruining” a beautiful journal. There would be no expectations. The point was not to be fabulous. The point was to keep writing.

When I took the pressure off myself to write something awesome, underneath I found the freedom to write absolute dirt. Ugly, rich dirt. And from this dirt sprung some beautiful wildflowers. In my humble notebooks, they found a safe place to bloom.

Now, when I am not using Microsoft Word, I rely on cruddy 10-cent notebooks from Target. I buy them when they go on sale in July. I collage the covers with magazine cut-outs and glitter, only so I can tell the notebooks apart. Because the notebooks are cheap and plentiful, it’s perfectly fine to use up all the paper in a week or two. No problem.

I am going to give myself a challenge: This fall, I will honor Angie’s wonderful gift of the leather-bound journal by filling it. Maybe with dirt, maybe flowers, probably both. The point is not to be fabulous. The point is to keep writing.

I give you a challenge, too: Stock up on cheap notebooks and start writing.