Oh, look at me with my fancy Moleskine, my pen, and my thoughts. Scribble, scribble: title, author, year. Lovely lettering. A flourish here, a little doodle there.
|You can probably see why I was so enamoured with my journal.|
But why is this blasted journal a sad testament to my bad journalling habits ... years later?
I was more in love with the idea of a journal than actual journalling.
Consider my reading and blogging habits. I am a mood reader. I usually have two books going at a time. I pick up the book that fits my mood at the time and either do a quick, short power read ... or I settle down, get comfy, and binge read. If I feel like it, I'll grab my Moleskine and jot down a few quotes that appeal or quick observations, feelings, mostly. But I noticed I most often do not feel like writing while reading - it really spoils the flow. I end up forgoing pen and paper and simply *GASP* dogearing.
When I'm ready to put together a review, I often find myself flipping to the dogeared pages and trying my darnedest to remember why I dogeared the page in the first place. This is a great little memory jogger and I most likely remember the things that make a relatively lasting impression. Otherwise, I think, what is the point of writing about something I feel lukewarm about?
In conclusion, I am conceding that this lovely book journal no longer needs to carry the weight of my failed book journalling habits. I free it. And, more importantly, I free me.
Now, shall we move on to my next read?
(Header photo: Jan Kahanek, unsplash.com)