I think I may have a problem. Where some people are addicted to chocolate, shopping, or heroin, I think I’m addicted to journals.
Any time I’m at one of my local retail establishments, I find myself perusing the journal-and-notebook aisle. If I see a cute eco-chic composition book or hand-drawn retro journal on sale, I can’t pass it up. I’ve got them stashed in my office, bedroom, and living-room bookshelf. I end up giving them away as gifts because, really, I could never fill them all in one lifetime.
Currently I’m working on no less than five journals (not counting my three blogs). They are:
- A writing journal, for writing exercises, brainstorming, and practice,
- A dream journal,
- A garden journal, for keeping track of what was planted, what worked and what didn’t, and planning next season’s garden,
- A grimoire, or magickal journal,
- A regular, old diary journal, for venting about my boyfriend, family, society, or whatever else is ticking me off at the moment.
I also think a journal should “match” its function. For example, my writing journal is “geek-chic” retro, with typewriters drawn on the covers (check it out here). My $1-at-a-yard-sale grimoire was hand made in Tibet, with chunky, unlined paper; the eyes of the Buddha grace the cover.
They say admitting you have a problem is the first step to overcoming it, but I don’t want to overcome it! I really do enjoy setting pen to paper; having a lovely “container” for all that ink just makes it all the more enjoyable. And why should I stop? Being addicted to chocolate can make you fat, shopping can make you broke (and/or a guest appearance on “Hoarding”), and heroin can make you broke, arrested, and/or dead. What does my addiction make me? A better writer.
Maybe it’s not such a bad thing, after all.