I love journals.
Distinctive covers.
Black. Brown. Mahogany,
All of the above.
Coarse, textured paper.
Blank. Lines. Grid.
All of the above.
Artfully bound.
Loose leaf. Refillable. Forgiving.
None of the above.
Love the ribbon.
I have several journals.
Many of them are empty.
Not a jot. Not an inkling. Not a clue.
I'm hesitant to commit pencil to paper.
Nice paper.
(If only a journal had an "Undo" feature.)
I need to remember
A journal's for journeying,
I need to write that down...
In a journal.
In life, as in journals, why are we so uncomfortable with process, preferring instead the end product--preferably in its imagined, perfect form?
"...most artists don't daydream about
making great art--
they daydream about
having made great art."
David Bayles, Ted Orland
Art & Fear:
Observations on
the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking
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