You couldn't be that small.

October Read #1: Hell House - Richard Matheson

With the exception of the adapted Dracula for Marvel comics, which I have not read though I've read the novel dozens of times, this is the only 're-read' on my list. I've read Hell House probably four to five times over the past several years. Each time I read it I find more to like about it, more that gets under my skin, and more that makes me excited to read it again.
Hell House is a true American ghost story, building on the base of the traditional and adding to it the exploration (and in some cases, the breakdown) of science, sexuality, faith, and personality. As a reader you're rather left to your own preconceptions to decide if the psychology of the house and how it affects people is caused by their own ideologies, or by paranormal entities. Each character has their individual ideas, and each seems plausible in the face of how situations are posed to us. The fact that their own beliefs cause (and cloud) their judgment makes each one an unreliable narrator several times through the course of the narrative and it's only in the last twenty pages that we are let in on the definitive answers.
It's not a story without loss, as no horror story really ever achieves acceptance in its genre without it, but the losses are incredibly calculated and important. It's not the body count which is important, it's the timing, the effect, and the reasoning which make them impactful. Matheson doesn't always excel at character development, but in this instance there is beautiful detail and specificity to each character. And I'm just going to say it now: I love Ben Fischer. If anything, he is the core of this novel and in a lot of ways the closest lens the reader gets to a 'typical' person being trapped in that environment. Yet he is truly anything but typical in his abilities.
Overall, the story is engaging, horrific, detailed, and insightful. It's also not a long, complex read. Clocking in at just over 300 pages, it doesn't talk down to the reader in terms of its scientific and parapsychological terminology, yet remains accessible. It's creepy and cool, with a resolution that doesn't feel cheated or forced, and will keep you thinking after completion without making you want to sleep with the lights on for a week.

October is "Read More, Bitch" Month

...and update your blog more, too.

I need to read more. Again. My mind has once again become stagnant and dulled. It begs for life to be breathed into it and at best I've been able to manage a weak sigh.
So last night I sat down, took out a fake Sharpie and a piece of construction paper (because sometimes for important lists you have to be eight... that's just how it is), and wrote down a short-ish list of book to read for next month. Seeing as how it's going to be October, and I love all the fallishness (or what I remember of it, since southern California doesn't have seasons) and Halloween funtimes that go with it, it's a pretty Gothic-centric list.
However, to keep myself on task, I'm tacking on the added challenge of blogging a review of these once a week, hopefully on Tuesdays. That way I satisfy two goals in one, and help my poor story-starved brain recover from its lack of imaginative air.

If you want to peek in every week to check my progress, please do so -- and if you want to know what I might will be reading, here's the list:

Hell House - Richard Matheson (re-read)

Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen

The Vampyre  - John Polidori

Roald Dahl's Ghost Stories - Roald Dahl

Dracula (graphic novel) - Bram Stoker / Marvel Comics*

Bonus Book TBA

*The Dracula graphic novel review will actually show up over at The Comics Observer, likely on 10/29, but I'll post a lil' tidbit and lingage here on that date.

Read along with me... IF YOU DARE. MUAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!
(See. Halloween. Love it.)

One of the few times I get snobbish and truly rant...

I thought I had included this entry in the early days of this blog, but upon review I found that I merely found another tangent to follow on the topic. However, with the advent of my first interview on vampire lore, I find myself tasked with amping up my rant quotient. Thus, my rant (to date) to end all rants. Even though it was written over two years ago, my feelings have not changed -- though I will say that Nolan's 'Batman' trilogy has advanced some of the cinematic ideas regarding baddies and those who just want to watch the world burn.


Writer's Block Query: Is there a book you really loved that was subsequently turned into a movie? Did it live up to your expectations? Why or why not?

Hoo boy... settle in, readers. You just opened the door for me to talk about 'the abomination' that is the film industry's attempt to ruin my favorite book. Over. And over. And OVER.(andaoveandoverandoverandover about 3,000 times -- number of times only slightly exaggerated).
For the newer peeps, random visitors, or those who just may not have been paying attention, my favorite book is Dracula. I blame my father. He told me at sixteen that this was 'the great unfilmed novel.' This is the last thing you want to say to a gothic-horror-loving teen who is a voracious reader, writer, film buff and has a passion for creative endeavors including film-making -- unless, that is, you want to create an obsessive monster.
Now, as movie adaptations of books go, I'm not a complete purist. I understand the need to clip some things, adjust others, creatively interpret descriptions and thoughts and situations. I get it. The execution doesn't always work for me, but I understand the need for it. So I want to make that clear before I start in on my rant. I also want to make it known there are some adaptations of books to film I think are great, one of which I'll close on after my scathing commentary. I love the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy. I love (most of) the 'Harry Potter' movies (Seriously, what happened between OotP and HBP? How did the director go retarded in that short span of time? Different rant...). I adore the 2005 'Pride & Prejudice' film, as well as the miniseries with Colin Firth. There are also a lot of adaptations that make me twitch (*cough*Kubrick's 'The Shining'*cough*), but we'll avoid those this time since I'm about to go full-force snark on one of the 'greatest living directors' of American cinema.

Francis Ford Coppola, you raped my book.

What disturbs and angers me foremost about 'Bram Stoker's Dracula' is that it's the only film to carry the author's name in the title and is so obviously not the book. This is made worse by the fact that when you watch interviews or read literature on the film, Coppola actually thinks he DID film the book. Now tell me, scholarly director, where in that book does Mina go on a date to the movies with Dracula? WHERE? And when precisely does she profess her undying love for him and shaft her husband in favor of Drac's scary bouffant hair and red dress? You want to know what this movie is? It's the Karloff version of 'The Mummy' adapted with vampires along with the characters and some scenes from Stoker's novel. Granted it is, so far, the only version of 'Dracula' to include all three of Lucy's suitors. Unfortunately, as is the case with most of the characters, they aren't really the type of men they are meant to be (or, in the case of Billy Campbell's quite wonderful portrayal of Quincey, he's so 'actually the character' that he seems out of place next to everyone else's wackiness). Barring their titular inclusion, the characters are written and portrayed basically nothing like they are in the book. Mina's a blushing bride turned wanton love slave of Dracula. Lucy's a man-chasing whore. Van Helsing's a complete crack pot. Seward, a brilliant young doctor, can't possibly run an asylum on his own without being unbalanced himself (oh, and a morphine addict because everyone in Victorian society was addicted to sex, morphine, absynthe and/or opium). Jonathan Harker is a giant pussy (and Keanu? Seriously? WTF, casting directors?). Arthur is probably the only one besides Quincey who is somewhat true to character (and a complete waste of Cary Elwes who, in an ideal situation, would have been the PERFECT Arthur). Dracula himself is a whiny, manipulative, cuckolding bat-man who just wants to find love.
Excuse me? Dracula travels all the way from Transylvania to England to seduce and romance a girl who looks like his suicidal wife from 400 years ago? HE JUST WANTS TO BE LOVED?!? F that S! What the man wants is to settle in to a quiet life in England where he can blend in and kill people at his leisure in a society that, unlike those superstitious gypsies, embraces modern science and reason and therefore will dismiss his crimes as something rational and explainable. When this is threatened by the men in this book, he turns on the vengeance and wreaks havoc on their lives. Why? BECAUSE HE'S EVIL.
This is a huge problem I have with this movie (and a lot of movies, adaptations or not) -- the resistance to the concept of evil. It's not necessarily that bad people are glorified, or mistreated and misunderstood (though that happens), it's that there is a lack of ability in film-making, and in society as a whole: to believe that some things, some people, some entities simply desire nothing more than to kill, to hate, to destroy and ravage and wreak havoc. The reverse, sadly, is also true (though to a lesser extent) -- that no one can be good for the sake of just being good. No one is pure of heart. No one will fight for goodness simply because they are good and believe in the goodness of others. (Anyone understanding now one of the reasons I love Doctor Who?) Everyone has to have dark motives, want something selfish, be an addict, covet their neighbor's ass and go for it. I'm not saying people should be portrayed without flaws or dark deeds and always taking the moral and ethical high road. What I'm saying is there aren't enough Aragorn's and Samwise's in our media.
Those being the major issues -- and they are MAJOR -- there are lesser problems I have with the movie. For instance, the Dracu-babes making time with Harker in the castle, biting on him and nearly giving him a BJ... yeah. Never happens. Not even close. There are also so many minor-seeming adjustments to situations, and how characters react to them, that when you know the story simply point to the creative minds not knowing how to portray a moment and so masking it with over-the-top constructs (Dracula as the giant talking bat, anyone?).
I could keep going. For hours. Some people have seen/heard me do this. However, I'll spare you the minutiae of everything that's wrong with this movie. As a film, it's not terrible (it's not particularly good either). As an adaptation of Bram Stoker's novel, it's an abomination.
This is however, par for the course with Dracula interpretations. There is no film in existence, of the hundreds that have been made which are somehow connected to the source, which even remotely begins to resemble the actual novel. I attack this one the most because it's the highest profile, the most recent 'straight interpretation' of the novel made for wide release, and because its title should be stripped from the record and replaced with "Francis Ford Coppola's The Mummy with Vampires and Characters Loosely Based on Bram Stoker's Dracula."

I have a thing for forbidden men...

William Howley, Archbishop of Canterbury

This bust is on display at the Huntington Gallery in San Marino, CA. It’s in a room with some of Gainsborough’s most popular paintings and some other stunning works of portraiture and marble busts. Yet every time I go, I cannot help but marvel at this one… because this is one damn fine looking clergyman.

There’s loads of boring stuff like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons.

From a little blog post I did on another site regarding this day:
Thursday is my least favorite day of the week. That’s right. Not Monday, when (if you’re cursed with a standard day job) you must return to the blinding fluorescent lights and windowless cubicle world for another five days of torture. Not Sunday when, just like as a child, you dread the upcoming return to the cubicle/classroom environment. No, it’s Thursday for the win. 
Thursday dangles the weekend before you yet stands as a constant reminder that you’re not done yet. People tend to be more testy, more easily riled, and more frustrated with the universe on Thursday (at least most of the people I know). Thursday reminds you that all those deadlines you set for the end of the week and haven’t achieved yet are imminent — and you’re probably not going to achieve them. Thursday afternoon is the most interminable three to four hours of the whole work week. Time actually does move backwards. 

There's been a lot happening in my little 'verse lately, and yet not so much that I feel as though a lot of progress has been made. I think it's a pitfall of spending so many years in theatre that I yearn for an immediate response to projects which are completed start to finish in a matter of months. Setting deadlines to complete a work that's been in progress for years... my patience just wears thin.
Still, I'm trying to avoid the pitfalls of wanting to move on to something else because damnit, this year I am going to finish something. More than one something if I can stick to the deadlines. 
I just have to work through the low days, including every wretched Thursday...

Aren't Ordinary People Adorable?

"Have you ever had anyone?"

Or: Why the Eff Aren't You Effing Watching Sherlock?
You must be lowering the IQ of your entire street.

I've had a good deal of conversations lately regarding adaptation of source materials for television and film. A good number of these conversations revolve around how what makes an interpretation not only faithful but engaging is the ability to remain true to the spirit of its source and, more importantly, the characterization. An excellent (superb, magnificent, mind-blowing... I'm seriously running out of superlative adjectives to describe it) example of crafting something which remains true to its source while giving having a life of its own is the BBC Sherlock. The stories are Doyle's, modernized. The characters are Doyle's, modernized. The show embodies everything that made the Sherlock Holmes stories timeless yet updates them to enrapture a modern audience.

Generally, I try to refrain from being a snob about entertainment (film, TV, music, literature) because I dislike the idea of having a narrow view of the great scope which makes up these incredible, diverse disciplines. While I will call out crap as crap, I try not to slam people's enjoyment of their preferred selections for creative indulgence (because let's be honest: I like some crap myself). Yet I will admit to a general feeling that 95% of what exists on television these days is utter crap, and the shows that truly craft engaging, compelling, emotionally investing, intelligent stories and characters get overlooked for yet another incarnation of American Idols Who Think They Can Have Talent Tout Their Voice For Dancing With Former Quasi Stars. I digress...

What Conan Doyle created with his detective series inspired, and continues to inspire, creative storytelling to this day. Much as the current Sherlock Holmes films bear little resemblance to their source material, they are engaging, entertaining Victorian buddy movies with equally gorgeous stars. (Confession: my own personal tastes lean much more toward Jude Law than RDJ, but I do enjoy them both.) I acknowledge and accept this fact, and in so doing  appreciate and enjoy these films for what they are.
With Sherlock, I not only enjoy the show as entertainment but as a study in adaptation, humanity, corruption, insanity, and... well... life. By staying true to the characters and stories crafted, the creators of the show are free to expand on the concepts Doyle presented in his original stories and interpret them for a post-post-modern audience.

Those are all quite academic reasons for watching the show. In po-po-mo parlance: this show is the shit. Sherlock is a brilliant sociopath whose own human nature is tested and explored by the forming friendship with the lost former army doctor who actually misses being in the middle of a war. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, IS the British government though he would claim otherwise, and yet he demonstrates an immense desire to look out for his brother, twisted thought their relationship may be.
If John is the anchor for the show, and for Sherlock, Moriarty is the foil. Just as brilliant as Sherlock and yet the prime example of psychopathy to Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies. There's a damn good reason the actors for all three of these major players were BAFTA-nominated this year. And quite honestly, the fact that Andrew Scott won for what amounts to an episode plus about five additional minutes of screen time speaks volumes to his talent, and the talents of the production team.

Bottom line: Sherlock truly is the best show you're not watching. So get on that...
(And don't even get me started on the masterful way Mofftiss ends a season.)

Life's Road Signs...

True dat!

Much to my constant chagrin, on this journey of life there are no signs along the road which say truly helpful things like:
Buckets of money over here!
Turn this way for ultimate success in your professional endeavors!
Three miles straight ahead to your perfect human companion!
Satisfaction with the state of your life and acceptance of who you are just through this thicket of brambles on the other side of the mountain!
Free puppies (already wormed, neutered, chipped, and with free food for a year)!

Wait... that last one actually does exist sometimes and is for me, in a brief moment of extreme optimism, always a sign which leads to happiness both for the recipient and the puppies.

You get the point, though. And if any of those other signs has shown up in your life and led to what is indicated, please give me directions to your road... unless that road involves joining Scientology, becoming a total slut, or sacrificing all my ethics in order to achieve my desires (gee, and I wonder why I haven't found success in Los Angeles yet...).

There are, however, signs which alert us to events, situations, traps, pitfalls, and such to avoid -- sometimes the signs are even multiple and give us a way out, if not to a better road, at least a different one with better potential. These signs aren't always obvious, but often they are, and in either instance there are times when we are either too distracted looking for the signs we want to see, or too stubborn to pay heed to the warnings, or too distracted by a drifting plastic bag across the road to notice the signs.
Then, one day, we look around and realize we're on a road we never intended to be with (seemingly) no idea how we got there, nor how to get away. Whatever triggers our realization, we ultimately have few options: stay where we are, accepting that this is where we took ourselves and just deal with it -- or find a way out.
Option one is safe. We may not be in the place we intended, or even want, but we're here now. Why not make the best of it? Accept, deal, and hang out here. Maybe we'll adjust to this place and find some type of satisfaction in it... eventually. Maybe.
Option two is terrifying. Exhilarating. It has the potential to alienate us from those we've been heading down the same road with and formed bonds with along the way. We could crash our proverbial cars or drive them off a cliff trying to get out of this place. We could also find our own road, build it if necessary, that leads to what we really want -- what is good for us.

I'm finding myself currently looking back and seeing the signs reflected on the road where an oppressive heat beats down and causes the signs to gleam in reverse off the pavement. I look at where I am and see how lost I truly am. I'm standing in the center of what looks like an oasis village, and yet I know what it really is. I've known for a while, I just haven't admitted it to myself.
It's a mirage.
That promise of security and balance is an illusion, and as much as I crave those two stabilizers I know I was made for more. I'm not one to run back out into the desert down unknown roads without drawing myself a map first, but I'll be damned if I settle in this little pocket of life and accept it as my one and only inevitable future. The water was soothing at first; now it's growing stagnant and wretched. I'm tired of trying to boil it and tossing in a few additives to make it more palatable.
I don't want palatable. I want savory, sweet, exotic, surprising, and I want it assaulting all my senses.

I'm going to start my own map, watch for the important signs, and build my own road out of this mirage. Anyone who wants out of theirs, let's build that road and head down it together.

If It's Been Done Well, Leave It Alone

*deep breaths before diving into a hot button issue with me*

Articles and speculation about adapting classic literature (and literature in general) always draw my attention and, sometimes, my ire. I am not one of those Every Book Is A Holy Canon Which Should Not Be Altered For Screen people. I'm a writer, and I have flaws. I've written for the screen, and have flaws. No writer is perfect and no medium of expression is perfect in conveying what one medium already covered. My issues with adaptations are not rooted in that base problem, they are rooted in this: when one creator crafts a story and characters, it is the responsibility of someone later coming along to adapt that work to at least stay true to the overall tone and message of the source, as well as its characterization -- or change the g-d name! You change plot points? As long as we get to the same eventual conclusion, fine. You combine or omit characters? As long as it makes a stronger narrative and doesn't mess up essential moments in the story, fine. You alter a major character motivation, changing who they are on a fundamental level? NOW I have an issue, and my outrage will be rantalicious unless you give damn good support for your change or, you know, CHANGE THE G-D NAME. (Noticing a trend?)

My only other gripe with adaptation (and why I pretty much never take issue with Shakespeare films because he's the one writer out there whose work we never quite get right), is that once a well done, faithful adaptation is accomplished it's time to close the book, so to speak, and remove it from the realm of stories up for grabs. In my hasty youth, I didn't even extend this to previous film works. I thought, hey, if you can update a classic film well, then go for it! I've wizened and grown curmudgeonly in recent yeas, however, and now see the error of my ways. And if ever I need a reminder, I think of High Society (yeah, Hollywood was pulling that even during its Golden Age, so we can't heap all the blame on ourselves for the current state of stagnant original ideas). It's fine to have a vision of someone else's story in your head. If you're lucky enough to be allowed the chance to craft that story in another medium, then kudos to you -- you're already achieving one of my biggest dreams. Just... don't eff it up. And if you do and then someone else comes along later and hits the marks where you missed them, then at least you had that chance. However, if someone beats you to your dream (and I swear I will probably resort to every known tactic of undermining human success if this happens to me -- yeah, I can get competitive when I need to be), accept their success and find a new dream for yourself. The idea that once a good, faithful adaptation has been crafted someone else can come along with a new interpretation that will make the successful one shudder in shame is ridiculous. Improving a work from one medium to another is one huge accomplishment. Don't tempt fate by trying to improve the adaptation -- find something different or original to make, or CHANGE.THE.G-D.NAME.

What spurred my current eruption of emotion about adaptations? Well, it's been sort of a slow burn recently between varying reports of remaking IT, a clustermess of issues in season two of Game of Thrones (many of which end up as just sloppy storytelling -- and making strong characters into idiots), and culminating in the top news of this article about directors who were born for certain adaptations. The article itself is intriguing and has some interesting (and some, really, very safe) choices in the roster. What made my head do a Linda Blair was the news which sparked this article: that Guy Ritchie is doing an adaptation of Treasure Island.
Now, I don't necessarily doubt that the movie will be a fun romp with cool action sequences, quippy dialogue, and a sassy Long John Silver. There's just two issues with this equation. First, that concept is not going to end up being Treasure Island. Second, there already exists a near perfect adaptation of the book -- we don't need another.
Addressing issue the first: Guy Ritchie's already proven this is his MO with the Sherlock Holmes movies. Those guys bashing around the world solving mysteries are not Holmes and Watson. What Ritchie crafted is a set of cool Victorian buddy movies, with two men who happen to share names with and few characteristics of two of the most compelling characters in literature. You want to really see Holmes and Watson on screen? Watch the BBC series Sherlock. It's a modern setting, yes, but it IS Sherlock Holmes. I enjoy the movies, but I told myself about fifteen minutes into the first one that this was a Victorian buddy movie, not a Sherlock Holmes movie. In my head, I CHANGED THE G-D NAME, and then it was fine.
Now on to issue the second: already a near perfect adaptation of Treasure Island? Yep. I've never seen that... you think. No, you probably haven't. Yet it exists. It's a very good film, and it is one of the best examples in existence of how to adapt literature for screen. It's faithful to the tone, style, feel and majority of the plot. The characterization is spot on with a stellar cast. It's not a perfect movie, but Treasure Island is not a perfect book. It is however proof that when you maintain the core of a novel as your guiding star you can make not only a good film but a truly faithful adaptation of a work which deserves that treatment. Yet, people are still making Treasure Island... except no other adaptation I've seen really is remotely close to actually being Treasure Island, thus the crux of this whole entry: if you're going to keep remaking something and yet deviate drastically from the source -- CHANGE.THE.G-D.NAME.

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.