Tag Archives: books

How do you choose a writing journal?

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Just like magic wands, a journal must choose you.

As a child, I expressed my deepest thoughts, heartbreak and angst in various hardcover journals, college-ruled notebooks and at least one Dear Diary with a metal lock. Did you pour your heart out in a journal? I still journal, but not as much as I used to. I wish I could say that’s because I have no adult angst, but I can’t lie. To make sure I carve the time out to reflect on myself, “journaling more often” is one of my New Year’s Non-Resolutions I committed to with my writers group.

My old journal ended today after five months of use. In my younger days, I could’ve blown through that purse-size, 4”x6” journal in less than two months. And in my younger days, I would never have used such a small book. Regardless, I need a new journal.

I have a collection of journals ready for words waiting for me on my bookshelf upstairs. Too many, one might say, but I hold an emotional attachment. Besides, can you ever have enough journals, whatever the style?

Dancing space sheep swirl around me, complete with glitter and memories.

Dancing space sheep swirl around me, complete with glitter and memories.

As I slide my hand down the row, examining each spine and shape, I think about reducing my stack. Here’s an opportunity to donate old journals I no longer enjoy writing in, either by size or style, and toss out ones with bad karma. I’m thinking of a specific one given to me by an ex-boyfriend’s mother, but I may have used it already. I don’t recall what it looks like when a bright purple spine pops out at me. Friendly bubble letters beckon me with one word: Journal. I pull it off the shelf and cradle it in my hand, staring at the cover. At least 30 seconds pass before I figure out that the abstract glittery shapes are sheep floating in space. It’s rather trippy.

Each white, lined page of the 5×7″ book is bordered with a quilt-like pattern of muted mauve hearts and stars. Sometimes I prefer pages with lines to keep my sentences straight and even, and other times, wide-open blank pages inspire me. Sometimes I like to write on bright white to show a pen’s true color, while other times my eyes want a muted tan or yellow page. This portable, lined, white-page journal in my hands seems fine to me. The psychedelic cover makes me weirdly happy. Now to flip to the inside cover and see if I made any notes about the journal’s date or where it came from.

Karma’s a bitch.

This journal was a birthday gift 15 years ago from a friend I no longer talk to, mailed to me at a previous job that was absolutely vile.

This is the kind of karma I was talking about, so I set it aside, not even putting it back on the shelf. There are plenty of other journals here. A leather dragon-covered book is too heavy. One large notebook has a handmade cover with buttons on it, a good memory of the person who made it for me, but a bit awkward for my needs right now. I don’t want this other one with a wooden cover. That blue Moleskine is too small. The ring binding on another is too big. Nothing fits my mood except the funky sheep journal.

This empty journal is scrawled with memories. I taped the original mailing label inside the front cover, which is why I know from where it was mailed. Just seeing the company name brings back stomach-churning memories of the underpaid job with the stuffy upstairs office where I worked. I remember the two sloppy mistakes I made that make me feel uncomfortable and stupid to this day, and the disrespectful ex-boyfriend I worked with who constantly yelled insults at me.

During that time, I had my friend, that lovely woman who knew me well enough to know I’d enjoy a fun-looking journal, perhaps a dollar store find, and mail it to me at work to brighten my day. Even today, I recognize her thick, curvy handwriting from the numerous letters we mailed each other. We met during one of my most unique summer jobs. And for reasons I don’t recall now, we immediately became friends. I took my first trip to Walt Disney World with her and a friend. She and I took a road trip to Salem, Massachusetts one Halloween weekend. The last good memory I have with her is bouncing on her friend’s outdoor trampoline on the afternoon my boyfriend-now-husband called to tell me he bought a new car, the car we still drive today.

She and I lived about seven hours away. I only saw her when I drove home to see my parents, and even then, I didn’t always have the time for the extra 2-hour drive. This one weekend, however, I was home for a long weekend and my Sunday was completely open. We could meet halfway and catch up in person, so I called her.

“I can’t,” she said. “I watch football with my boyfriend on Sundays.”

I never knew her to be a sports fan, but I was a far-away friend in town for the day. “What’s it going to hurt, taking one afternoon off?” I asked.

“I can’t. We watch football on Sundays.”

I understood that sports aspect with guys; my boyfriend-now-husband watched college football on Saturdays. He liked it when I watched the games with him, but if I wasn’t there one weekend–like this weekend I was currently away for–his life didn’t end and we didn’t break up. I’ll be there to watch games with him weekend, but I will not be within driving distance of my friend next weekend.

“Not just this one Sunday?” I asked her, hearing my voice rise in a pleading tone.

“We watch the game together,” she replied.

I never met her boyfriend, but I got the sense he was a demanding man.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but my friend was always independent. If she hadn’t been dating him, I was sure she’d make the time to see me. I told her how hurt I was, how I thought he might be controlling and I was saying that because I was looking out for her, as a friend should, but in the end, I lost the argument. We spoke once or twice on the phone after that, but she stopped returning my calls. I lost my friend.

I was surprised to receive a sympathy card from her when my dad died. She must have been on the overall distribution list when I emailed the news out. That was a nice gesture, really touching, but I didn’t know what to say, where to begin again. I don’t recall mailing a reply to her.

Now this journal calls me. I don’t know why. Does the journal want me to fill it with good memories, turning something positive out of a bad memory? Is its purpose to just fill the pages and “git ‘er done” and out of my life? Does my journal want some closure for me? Some reminder of better times, or is it a nudge to do something more?

All I know is that the two floating cosmic sheep make me smile, and I have to choose this as my next journal. Maybe with a wave of a metaphysical wand, I’ll figure this out by the end of the journal. Or maybe the last page will be just a last page.

Do You (Still) Read Books?

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When is the last time you read a book?

My answer to that question is: late February.  But my real answer should be: I don’t read enough.  And that’s a sad thing for a writer.

I talk a lot about the way we wrote as kids, just for the fun of it, no expectations, just playing with words.  I should also be dancing with books, traveling through other worlds to experience the words of others.  I should be reading not necessarily to learn from or to study with an eye towards technique, but really, just to pass the time.

“Should” is an evil, passive excuse of a word.  Anything that “should” be done “needs” to be done.  That is so much easier to say than do because there is so much more in the world to do.

Welcome to the world of social media.  We pass our time with heads buried in our phones or tablets, getting neck cramps from looking down too much, missing the scenery we ride by and not hearing the people around us.  Given that, who wants to carry a book when you’ve got hundreds downloaded onto your Kindle or Nook app?  Further frustration:  who wants to open those apps when you can have the three-star-rush of Angry Birds or discovering five new Pinterest recipes for banana nut bread?

The world of electronic gadgets and the bright shiny oooooooh of it all do suck me in.  I don’t spend my time reading books.  That makes me sad, but I don’t see myself changing my routine.

The most recent book I finished was a memoir recommended to me.  I bought it—a physical copy—because that person said, it sounded like the type of memoir I was writing.  I bought it to study and learn from it, the story being a secondary aspect.  It turns out that the approach worked for me; the story was not a great one and I didn’t connect with the character, but there were lines of brilliant emotion that struck my heart.  I wonder: would I have bought that book just off a bookshelf, physical store or otherwise, if I didn’t have that writing connection to it?

I’m writing this in a Starbucks, and what a twist of coincidence just now.  I overhear a conversation between two women where one says, “Have you read the latest James Patterson novel?”  I’m pausing to listen.  The music’s loud enough and the women are far enough away that I’m only hearing snippets.  “He has a team of writers.”  “He’s always on top of it.”  “It’s always a mystery story.”  “Reading Wall Street Journal,” at which point I think the discussion has moved on to other topics.

I am thrilled to hear this conversation.  Angled towards each other, these women are still a community of two.  What are they doing?  I have to get a closer look.  I’m a terrible judge of age, but they look the age of people who still prefer reading paperbacks.  Do they have a roughed-up paperback between them?  That’d be so cool.  I tell myself I need to sweeten my coffee more, so I shuffle by and peer over their shoulders.  They’re both looking down at large smartphones or small tablets.  I am actually disappointed.  I tell myself that regardless where or how they read it, they read it.  Together.

They’re doing more than I am.

Months ago, I made reading a priority and set goals for the year.  I contributed my part to my writers group’s list of our New Year’s Writing Non-Resolutions.  You can read everyone’s lists here. One of my non-resolutions is what I think is an achievable reading goal for me.

As a writer, I feel a need to be more involved on Goodreads, so I updated my pathetically outdated account.  I enrolled in the 2015 Reading Challenge.  The number of books that I think is achievable for me is…well, check it out here and form your own opinion.

My list of books “currently reading” or “want to read” include two that people want me to review and/or critique.  Now I’m a reviewer.  Now I’m reading with a purpose, an obligation.  It’s more like a job.

When was the last time I wandered a bookstore with the intention of finding a book to read for selfish pleasure?  I don’t know.  I really don’t know.  There’s a lack of bookstores in my part of southeast Michigan.  There are two Barnes and Noble bookstores located a short drive from me.  There is one nice local independent store of new and used books, and then there’s one junky, cluttered used bookstore.  There’s a fabulous large used bookstore on the edge of Detroit, but it’s just far enough away for me to think of it as out of the way.  Nice excuses soothing my guilty conscience.

I guess I should stop making excuses for not reading.

Read, Read, Read

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“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.”

~Stephen King

I met a young man in a critique group who had an excellent premise for his novel. I asked him if he read anything in that genre. His unflinching reply, “Oh, I don’t read books.”

Unbelievable!

Good writers read and write a lot. Inspiration can come from various sources, not just their own genre. As a memoir and fiction writer, I’ve read a number of books that have helped me improve my creative skills. Some books I’ve kept in my do-not-lend collection.

The Cry and the Covenant, the historical fiction by Morton Thompson, chronicles a doctor’s efforts in preventing women from dying of childbed fever. As a teaching physician at a hospital, he insisted that his students and colleagues wash their hands after working on a cadaver and before helping a woman deliver her baby. This was before widespread acceptance of germ theory and his colleagues resisted his efforts. Women continued to die. Thompson’s description of the ignorance of the medical staff and the doctor’s frustration was powerful.

I reread Lynn S. Hightower’s Flashpoint to study her writing style and because I enjoyed the fact that a female serial killer was quite intriguing and believable. Hightower is excellent in this genre.

Charles Pellegrino’s Dust is a terrifying tale of a worldwide biological chain of events that threatens the survival of mankind. Since reading that book, I haven’t met a dust bunny I didn’t try to kill.

Phantom by Susan Kay is a powerful prequel to The Phantom of the Opera. Each chapter is told from the point of view of the person with whom the phantom comes in contact, beginning with his mother who recoiled at the sight of her disfigured newborn. This book demonstrates strong character development.

The World’s Love Poetry, edited by Michael Rheta Martin, contains more than 500 poems – lyrical, bawdy, tragic, beautiful, and moving – from centuries ago to modern times.

The Stovepipe by Bonnie E. Virag is an emotionally moving memoir of a young girl’s struggle and survival after she and her many siblings were taken from their home and put in foster care. The book ends with “After Thoughts,” a touching recap of her family members’ whereabouts.

I’ve enjoyed rereading the adventures and viewing the awesome pictures of the travels of Kwang and Kook-Wha Koh in their book, Hopping Seven Continents, Maybe one day I can go to some of the places they’ve been.

The young man I mentioned did self-publish his book, but the story wasn’t fully developed or well-written. No surprise there. He should have read more books.

What are you reading?