Journaling and the Passage of Time

In the last days of December, I filled up the combination photo and scrap album¹ I had been working on since the summer I moved to Oslo. Six and a half years of my life, tucked in between two cardboard covers and preserved for the future. Thus, in addition to my usual journals (for keeping track of assignments, essays, reports, readings, and so forth) I must also set up a new album. Change is scary, yet I cannot do without one. I thought that if I blogged about my process, it would overwhelm me less.

First, I needed a book. Fortunately for myself, I already had one laying around that is precisely what I wanted or, rather, what I did not know I wanted: my previous album was large and bulky, impossible to bring along on adventures and a chore to drag out from its place on the shelf, while this one can be a constant companion. The book itself is unassuming, A5, black, cloth-bound with a black satin ribbon for its bookmark, and the second half to a pair I bought years and years ago that has been waiting patiently for its moment to shine ever since. (I believe it is this one from Paperstyle.) The pages are acid-free, crème-coloured, lined, and play nicely with my fountain pens. These, to me, are wonderful features. I do not love how the textile feels in my hand, but that is not a deal-breaker; I would rather use it up, than toss it out.

The book in question.

But an album––any album, any journal––is only good as long as it is actually used. The second step, therefore, was making mine a pleasant place where I would want to spend my time … and therein lay the challenge: What kind of energy, what kind of personality do I want to imbue my new album with? What story do I want it to tell Future Me? I had two stickers on which my heart was set, but everything else was a mystery and would remain so for about a week. This was, in itself, not a problem. I could use the album without decorating it, leaving the "title page" blank and daunting, to be bothered with at a later date––if at all––while filling up the regular pages and fulfil my desire for character and personality through those, except I wanted to overcome my irrational fear.

I played around with the ideas in my head, trying to embrace the concept of imperfection and progress past this hurdle through looking up inspiration on Tumblr and Pinterest, and positioning and repositioning my stickers upon the page. Eventually, the block, as in a river, loosened and the creative flow resumed its natural ways. I stuck the stickers down. Consummatum est.

A "title" page just beginning to bloom. The cherub sticker is by toadprincessofapathy on Etsy; the unicorn is from Stina Jarenskog.

What finally did it, I do not know; maybe I got used to the idea, maybe the book stopped feeling so new (even with a few of the pages torn out), or maybe I just got tired of maintaining my apprehensions. Either way, I think the making of this post did me good. As for the first entry, that is between me and my album.

 

P.S. I feel compelled to apologise for the poorer-than-it-might-be image quality, alas it is winter.

Footnotes 
1 Alternatively a "junk journal," though I personally find this terminology less charming.