Can we get a Trapper Keeper up in here?! Woot Woot!
An Ode to the Grocery Store .99 cent Spiral-bound Notebook
I have a shelf where I store my beautiful notebooks, dot grid journals, and sketchbooks.
The Shelf of Pristine Journals
They have a gorgeous, thick paper that will withstand paint pens, markers, and fountain pens dramatically spilling and sputtering with ink. These pages would even hold court with a dry-brush gouache.
These pages would rather die than let an ink bleed through.
They are bound in gorgeous linens and art -my art, on a few.
Some have ribbons and elastic bands to keep them safe, tucked in, and cozy.
One has ribbons, an elastic band, AND a mother fucking charm!
(Good fucking golly gosh Gladys, get out the fine china the Queen is coming to town!)
In short, they are a stationary girlie's wet dream.
They were supposed to make me feel special.
They were supposed to catapult my thoughts, feelings, brilliant ideas, and dreams into blazing reality.
They were supposed to be magic.
Because honestly, when hasn't new stationery, an adorable set of sticky notes, or a gorgeous new pen not fixed, like everything??!
These high-end, rich-bitch, Park Avenue journals are 97% blank on the inside, if they've been fondled at all.
I start with fountain pens, fine liners, and sketches—high-end "doodles" that aren't doodles at all.
Gorgeous hand-lettered pages and titles.
I record quotes and daydreams, and I add little paintings.
Each book starts as a work of art…
Where it starts and ends.
Then, the dark thoughts come along.
The troubled times, the seething raw white-hot anger.
The desire to burn things down - physically and metaphorically.
The petty thoughts that I don't want to admit exist.
Those thoughts don't belong in gorgeous books full of dreamy art, hand-drawn maps of travels, and beautiful quotes.
The beautiful journals are abandoned.
And then I find I can’t go back. The dates no longer line up—too much time has passed for continuity. I often consider taking an X-acto blade to the first few pages and starting fresh, but I never do.
Clarity in the Moment - ha!
In the end, keeping up with this kind of journal takes too much time and energy because I'm so hyper-focused on making the book's content as perfect as the book itself.
But mostly, it's because they aren't true.
They are false.
Life is beautiful, but not in this decorous and curated way.
“But also, let me be crystal fucking clear—if this is how you make your art, and it fills and satisfies you, that’s all you need.
I implore you to please ignore me and my rampant blatherings, which stem from a lifetime of a scarcity mindset, which is so debilitating that a journal with quality paper sends me to my knees.”
Which, is what these journals sell—the hope that a perfect journal or planner will equal an ideal life.
At least that is what I bought.
What I was hoping to buy.
But many of my hopes, ideas, and dreams have come true, and I haven't burned anything down—that I can be prosecuted for.
And I give that credit to journaling.
Dedicating the first part of every morning to getting all the good, grateful, and egregious thoughts out of my head is why I haven't burned anything down.
Enter the bare bones, not a frill in sight, spiral bound with wire so thin it would cut you if it escaped, cheap as fuck paper, that would rather be smoking under the bleachers, no time for anything other than scrawling one's thoughts as fast as possible before the paper disintegrates in the early light of the day.
The $0.99 spiral-bound notebook from the grocery store.
I buy them two or three at a time.
They have become my most valuable possessions, but as soon as they are full, I'll toss them in the trash without a second glance.
They are used and oh so abused.
I write and scrawl every morning for as long as it takes.
Some days, it's a paragraph.
Some days, it's pages filled with intricate plots for arson and other crimes.
Sometimes, it's just tears and smeared ink.
The $0.99 notebook holds it all.
I like how Tim Ferriss sums it up; in discussing his approach to journaling, he described it as "the most cost-effective therapy I've ever found. It's a private space where you can confront and clarify your thoughts, including the "bullshit" we all tell ourselves. This practice allows for a raw, unfiltered look at your internal dialogue, helping you see things more clearly and work through them."
There is something so magical about being able to see my bullshit on the page, seeing it for the bullshit that it is, seeing it so raw and so dressed down.
I can't lie to myself when the truth stares back at me in black and white.
That is the magic of the spiral notebook.
That is the magic of a workhorse.
The fact that it has almost no value means there is nothing stopping me from letting the ugly parts out to play on the page.
There is no one to impress.
The Queen is, in fact, not coming to tea; it's just me and the page going head-to-head.
Only the truth wins.
It's so good.
It doesn't have to be special to work.
Self-care doesn't always have to smell of lavender vanilla buttercream with sparkles.
It can be thin paper, flimsy covers, and a wobbly spiral binding.
What is your workhorse?
Where do you put your internal goo?