At the beginning of the year, I bought a week-to-view diary. It’s nothing special, black front cover with generic silver writing and wafer thin paper, it cost £1 but it’s one of the best purchases I’ve made, period. Rarely now, is it not to hand.
Growing up, I always kept a journal. Those hallowed pages bore witness to rants about boys I fancied, friends I’d fallen out with, things my parents did that made life unfair. For years I avoided writing one again because I thought it would be too boring. Full of the mundane, diaries smack of repetition and routine.
Mine isn’t like that. Full of sentences from books I’m reading, overheard conversations and half-formed thoughts. My journal has become a container for intriguing things, forever growing and expanding, much like this blog. It’s a place for snippets, not perfect content, where disparate ideas gather. I love writing and photography but it doesn’t stop there. Everything has the capacity to provide inspiration.
I think of blogs and journals as touchstones, providing the motivation to keep making work. They’re places to come back to again and again, no matter how stuck.
The cartoonist, author and teacher, Lynda Barry says that “when you were a kid, you’d never write a book unless you had a book to write in in” and it’s true, having my containers inspires me to fill them.