I’ve always felt uncomfortable when I don’t have ready access to a pen and paper; if the words jumping and shivering in me can’t be snared and captured on the page. If the only thing in my bag is an old receipt and a blunt pencil I can do it. I’ve sneaked precious thoughts down the side of old metro tickets, I’ve biroed over paper cafe serviettes, weasled along the top of cereal boxes, on my hand, even though I don’t like the feeling of ink seeping through my skin and blood and becoming part of my cellular makeup…
Above are the overly neat pages from a 1990 diary…full of lonely desperation and determination to make myself better.
I have kept a journal intermittantly forever, and l have most of my old journals…they were in storage when our cabin burnt down so I can still trawl through my teenage angst ridden pages and wince at their pious judgements self loathing .
‘I really should curb this tendency of mine to always say what I think when I’m arguing with Mum, really everyone would be alot happier if I just kept my feelings to myself’
‘ ‘I am quite pleased with myself that, at the end of a Thursday I have arrived home happy and cheerful without having had a major depression during the day’
I struggle to feel compassion for her, the overly self conscious prissy teenager, cowed and petrified of life, controlled and unempowered. I wince because I still see fragments of her splintering into my life everyday
Despite feeling a vague sense of melancholy at the state I was generally in at that time, I realise how the journalling process helped me navigate those torturous years. Somewhere to flood with thoughts, words and feelings, never mind how pious and and negative they were. A place to process desperation, despair, loneliness anguish, and obviously to record those happy Thursdays where I didn’t have a major depression!!
Those beautiful clean white pages were my friends….they diin’t judge or criticise or ignore me …..but most of all I just loved to write, to create something out of my experience, a safe space for me.
I still write journal, it still seems to be less about what I’ve done and more about how I feel and its such a gift to have that sacred place to work through ideas, offload things that really, noone else needs to hear…
I also really really love journals. Beautiful blank books to fill with juiciness, ravaging despair sublime joy, I could own hundreds, all lined up with shivers of anticipation.
I’ve started making a few hand sewn books, mostly with the kids, art journals, cookery books; its so satisfying, the cutting and stitching , creating
So I decided to offer one as a giveaway to one beautiful reader. I love reading your comments, suggestions, support, and if you leave a comment on this post I will pick some one to receive a book.
How would you use it? What would you write?
What would you draw, rant or collage
There’s nothing like an empty book……