When Inspiration Hits - On the Topic of Journalling.
Since I was in the tenth grade I have kept journals. I have about a dozen of these journals that keep a fairly continuous record of who I was over this period of time. They range broadly in format and style. Some are entirely written and other are much more of the artistic variety.
I started around the same time I start this very online journal. (I've actually thought about printing every entry ever posted here and creating a kind of appendix journal. A print record of online journalling to accompany the rest.
The point is, I've been very good and fulfilling this need I have to record my life. Each journal I own is like a snapshot of me at 16 or 18 or 20. They are filled with art, lyrics, pictures, and bits of realia. They show all my thoughts and fears and questions and beliefs and loves and wants and wishes. Everything that I am and was. It's fascinating to look back at them.
I keep them in chronological order on the shelf of my bedside table. Some are embarrassing and some I've have a particularly strong attachment to. Some are homemade. Some, like my katimavik ones, are bursting at the seams, they are so full.
Yet, since I came home from Katimavik I've barely written or created a single thing. I attempted for the first few weeks of september, and then there is just nothing.
I have experienced before periods of time where I didn't feel inspired or whatever to continue with the journal I was on. But never this long. Sometimes I would get bored with the format and style it was taking and couldn't continue in the same book, but usually I would just find another one that suited me and start again. I've even torn pages out (keeping them and binding them separately), just so I could start a journal again.
This time is different. I've had many blank journals and just couldn't bring myself to put anything in them. I've felt creatively empty for months and months.
Yesterday I finally started again.
I'm not sure why. I just have. And can already tell the shape it is going to take.
It will be writing mostly. black ink on the lined paper of my Met notebook I bought while in New York. It may evolve over time.
It just feels right when I hold it now.
This probably all sounds ridiculous.
I've been known to carry blank notebooks around with me for weeks trying to make them feel right. There has to be a connection with a book before I can make a mark on it's first page.
Now I need to go buy some new pens, pronto!
I started around the same time I start this very online journal. (I've actually thought about printing every entry ever posted here and creating a kind of appendix journal. A print record of online journalling to accompany the rest.
The point is, I've been very good and fulfilling this need I have to record my life. Each journal I own is like a snapshot of me at 16 or 18 or 20. They are filled with art, lyrics, pictures, and bits of realia. They show all my thoughts and fears and questions and beliefs and loves and wants and wishes. Everything that I am and was. It's fascinating to look back at them.
I keep them in chronological order on the shelf of my bedside table. Some are embarrassing and some I've have a particularly strong attachment to. Some are homemade. Some, like my katimavik ones, are bursting at the seams, they are so full.
Yet, since I came home from Katimavik I've barely written or created a single thing. I attempted for the first few weeks of september, and then there is just nothing.
I have experienced before periods of time where I didn't feel inspired or whatever to continue with the journal I was on. But never this long. Sometimes I would get bored with the format and style it was taking and couldn't continue in the same book, but usually I would just find another one that suited me and start again. I've even torn pages out (keeping them and binding them separately), just so I could start a journal again.
This time is different. I've had many blank journals and just couldn't bring myself to put anything in them. I've felt creatively empty for months and months.
Yesterday I finally started again.
I'm not sure why. I just have. And can already tell the shape it is going to take.
It will be writing mostly. black ink on the lined paper of my Met notebook I bought while in New York. It may evolve over time.
It just feels right when I hold it now.
This probably all sounds ridiculous.
I've been known to carry blank notebooks around with me for weeks trying to make them feel right. There has to be a connection with a book before I can make a mark on it's first page.
Now I need to go buy some new pens, pronto!