Creating New Magic

AKA: Starting a New Journal

I wrote yesterday about the trials and process of dealing with the loss of magic in one's journal. Once you accept and mourn the loss of one, however, you must move on and discover the enchantment in another journal.

In some ways, choosing a new journal is more vital to me than saying goodbye to one whose magic is gone. I've always felt journals to be precious, magical devices capable of eliciting unencumbered creativity -- so long as you choose one which suits you as an individual. Weird, old-fashioned notion? Yup. Have I tried to break myself of that idea? Yup. Did it work? Hell no. Do I argue with my 'process' of selection anymore? Hell-to-the-no. It just drags out the ordeal, and it can be a long and daunting enough journey as it is. Until I reach a day where 'any old blank book' will do (and honestly, I kinda hope that never occurs), I'll keep to my list of qualifications.

1. Easily portable, but not tiny. I'll buy larger journals (and occasionally sketchbooks) on occasion, but they tend to be for special projects and seldom see use. In order for a journal to become an extension of my writing and creative habits, it's got to be able to fit easily into a medium-sized bag with all my other take it everywhere crap. 5x7 or less in size, but not too small because then it feels like I cannot put anything of decent length in it without having to turn a page every ten seconds.

2. Place marker. I don't care what style it is, or how fancy, I just need something to mark a place in the journal to which I will pick up next time.

3. Lines. I MUST have lines for writing in a journal. Blank pages are daunting enough, the lines provide the tiniest amount of structure in what I otherwise see as a terrifying blank canvas. Plus, it helps keep my furious writings at least barely legible (to me, anyway).

4. A durable cover. It doesn't have to be hard; it doesn't have to be leather. It just needs to be durable. This book will live with me for, typically, at least a year and that requires it to be able to withstand a lot of getting shuffled and bashed around.

5. Paper of decent thickness. I usually write with mechanical pencil, however at times I write with fountain pens in dark ink. I don't want my scribblings to bleed through to the back of the pages. That's a waste of valuable writing space and again can sacrifice valuable writing time to having to flip pages too often.

6. An overall design and construction that is comfortable. See above re: carrying this thing everywhere. The cover design/color must appeal to me. I dislike sharp corners or edges as I can press down pretty hard when writing and don't like cutting myself when I really get into a tear and write twenty pages in an hour. It also cannot be too heavy, again due to the necessity of carrying it with me constantly.

7. Instinct. This is, obviously, the one aspect I cannot describe with objectivity. So long as it meets the above qualifications the only reason I choose one journal over another tends to be because I just happen to see one and my internal compass points and says, "That one!" And no matter how many journals I find that meet the above requirements, I will not purchase a book that doesn't pull me to it. I need to feel the magic. It must hit me before I ever sit down and start a single word.

At times, this search for a new magic tome has taken weeks of seemingly endless toil -- hours spent in bookstores and on the interwebs hunting for a book that not only fulfills my requirements but reaches out to me, personally, and voices that it belongs in my hands, and mine alone. Thankfully, when I felt the magic draining from my now dearly departed Red, I happened to find a replacement without an arduous or lengthy search. Another clearance item, it beckoned me from an end cap display. The size and weight are perfect, the pages crisp, lined, and decently thick. It even bears a resemblance to a previous journal which my parents got for me as a gift and holds the majority of (the handwritten portions of) my first novel. Above all, the instant I laid eyes on it, I knew. It knew.
It put a spell on me, and now its mine.

I know I'm not alone in this, so what, gentle readers, are your requirements for a new journal/sketchbook/notepad?

When Journals Lose Their Magic

Writing, the act of actually putting a writing implement on paper, seems to be becoming more antiquated by the day. Yet there are still those out there who require at least some of our time spent writing to involve this act. For myself, there are times when not only is typing inconvenient (I have an outdated, though reliable, laptop that does not accompany me everywhere, nor any tablet device -- but I ALWAYS have a pen and a notepad), it lacks a certain connection to the material I create.
I've always been a hands-on creator. I draw. I paint (very poorly). I play piano (or could, once upon a time). I make jewelry. I put together shelving units and desks with the 'help' of the horribly illustrated diagrams of do-it-yourself furniture. I cook -- and while I don't always enjoy getting my hands seeped in ground meat, or chicken guts, or sticky doughs, I understand  and accept it's a part of the process of crafting meals.

The difference between crafting in those other mediums and writing, for me, is that when I get a notebook or journal to write in, I'm not only picky about the ingredients (as I am with any creative project), I also reach a point where those ingredients which shaped my need for the journal lose their power. The whole journal loses its power and ability to spur on my writing. In short, the journal loses its magic.
Yet I cannot bring myself to simply toss aside the book as if it were remnants of silver wire, or a broken cerulean pencil, or an extra wing nut that doesn't fit onto any conceivable part of the rolling shelf unit. I know many who use journals and sketchbooks feel the same. The desire to hold on to the physical evidence and memory of what once inspired you is too strong to discard.
However, this time around I've used the same journal for just over three years and while there are still probably 80 usable pages remaining, I noticed a couple months ago that every time I reached for it, opened it, any creative impulse I had disappeared. The book itself lost the power to draw me into it and furiously write down my inspirations in an encapsulated red-covered parcel of paper. It infuriated me not just because I don't like wasting paper, but because I felt that I had betrayed this loyal companion.
This books contains notes from my time on the Artistic Management Committee at my theatre. It's got the first piece of fanfiction I began that doesn't make me feel like fanfic is a derogatory form of writing. It contains tax calculations, shopping lists, career coaching notes and oh yes, dozens upon dozens of pages filled with writings from two of my (currently) four in-progress novels. How does something that contains that much of your life, that has been the keeper of important notes, dreams, creative bursts you never imagine, suddenly transform one day into a dull collection of pages where each time you set your writing utensil to a sheet of paper all your desire to write melts away?
There's likely some psychological time+overuse=meah-related explanation for it that relates to the amount of time and energy you invest into it and one day your brain just no longer relates to that object as the receptacle of such things. I, however, surmise it thus: one day the magic dies -- whatever you wrote in that journal still carries import, and always will, but the days in which your mind pours itself onto those particular pages is over  -- and until you accept that, put the journal to rest, and find a new receptacle, your ideas will become stagnant and uninspired (if the ideas ever deign to come at all).

So yeah, the other day I posted about my brain missing. And it is still, to an extent, but I have had to force myself to come to terms with the idea that part of my lost mind is due to going far too long without physically writing. I need that type of release for my thoughts and ideas, and by clinging to a magic-less book for too long I allowed that part of my mind to run off in search of I know not what.

Here's to my red journal. I found it in a Borders on clearance for $6 in the early spring of 2009,  and it has served me ever so faithfully. Within it are words I might never have written had I chosen another journal at the time. It grieves me to let go of something that once inspired my mind in new and exciting ways. A part of me will feel lost without it. However, a much larger part may lose itself forever if I do not accept this loss and endeavor to rekindle the magic in a new journal.