Writing by Hand
In which we talk about observations while writing into a journal made by a crafter. I was lucky enough to find an item I loved that was made with love by a vendor at the Minnesota Renaissance festival. I made this shopping trip with my wife, and purchasing fun things was the purpose of the trip. So I picked up a little leather-bound blank book. As a first usage, I wrote about it.
I am transcribing here to the best of my ability. Most, not all, small details of this writing are discussed in the following pages. But first I should point out that I have long held an affection for small blank booklets. I frequently wish to take quick notes, and having a portable writing implement and space to use it is a simple delight.
More than being joyful, having that tool to write helps me overcome inertia against writing at all. I love writing, I have many ways to go about doing it. I also have a modern busy life and loved ones - all pulling my attention in unpredictable ways. The ability to write any where, any time, and with minimal time to spin-up or commitment to keep pace, and without any penalty for interruption...that is truly invaluable.
I have no fewer than four portable computers that ostensibly should fulfill this same role. Somehow they do not. The notebook I am writing about here is somewhat blocky due to having many sheets of thick paper, and so seems harder to carry than a cell-phone. But it is so drastically better for writing that it more than overcomes that small disadvantage.
I have made recent efforts and self-commitments to actively practice writing. And although I've written previously, and will do so in this very article, about how publishing is not crucial to my satisfaction, I do wish to practice it. So I am copying from the booklet to this first post. I think a lot will be lost in the transcription, and I'm already stumped about how best to cover some details. I think that's an acceptable loss to make sure I create internet-infinite copies before I drop my small journal into a puddle.
I also hope that some reader on the wide world web will enjoy the writing in its reduced form. I hope I can preserve the original, so they can some day observe the details I embedded in real life pages. I promise there are many of those, because I was thoroughly enjoying my new journal. Also I could just xerox it, i guess.
Acknolwedgements
This journal was made by the artist and crafter Stephanie, doing business with her company Under the Mango Tree Journals. They can be reached via the Face Book to via electronic post sent to underthemangotreejournals delivered by Google mail.
Thanks to her.
First Sitting
The first thing I noted about this journal...I truly cannot remember. But I remember many things in no particular order.
- it included paper
- that paper was replaceable (I had no confirm from the seller; I assumed it was the opposite.)
- it was interesting
re: the day before
The second thing I noticed about this journal was that I liked the paper. It is bumpy and weird, and that made me feel it was unique. The shop keeper told me that although she did not make it herself, it was hand-made and would last a lifetime. Cotton, in particular.
I didn't know that cotton paper was a thing. I still don't know how to make it.
Waiting for Drosslemeier (sp?).
The third thing I noticed about this journal was its clasp. It was cool and functional and seemed like it "would last a lifetime". I don't know if I realized it at the time, but the leather flap is great for holding a pen.
@ BJ's dining
The fourth thing I noticed: the cool set-in on the "cover". (Quotes because earlier I had considered buying a "binding", which is, I guess, the same as this journal, except it does not come with refillable paper included.)
I didn't actually like that rock as much as I liked this journal's cool blue one. "Lapis" the shopkeeper called this journal's.
hiding from panoptics
After Nana's Party
The fifth: I was charged less than I expected. Upon double-checking the tag, I realized my Lapis item had no clasp at all.
The shopkeep resolved my beauty versus function quandry by offering to add one for a modest fee. I simply had to wait.
While that wait, I saw a simple bulletin board that I had not noticed before. I used it to scrawl a riddle about a secret passage I had discovered earlier.
No return to the fair this year.
Sixth: I would need a good pen. Something with good ink and no need for strong friction. Perhaps some expensive device that required its own careful maintenance. Maybe a quill.
I asked the shopkeeper for her recommendation. She had little preference except avoiding pencil. I thanked and wished her well for the 2nd to last time.
We considered visiting the pen store on our way out of the fair. But that proprietor was over-eager to joke about violence, and a bullet-shaped pen is not my style.
Depart by bus and introspect out loud
Unexpected workday marathon
Seventh: none of my loved ones liked the journal for the same reasons that I did. That's fine; it isn't for them.
I intended to show it off to other people, too. Friends. I carefully planned and packed it amoung other prizes from the festival of craft goods. I didn't show them afterall, and a week later I'm glad about that. I'm glad I am no longer a small child, sitting and playing only for the hope of a bystander's attention.
Still re: the first day
8th: my family was only mildly interested in what I thought about my new toy. Their complaints made no impact to my journal, but I listened anyway because they were talking about what would matter to them. I hope they find their perfect toy.
They offered me interesting advice about my own complaints. I can't remember what they said, but I know I was grateful.
For example, my wife suggested gel-roller pens. That was awesome because a quill would have unable to pack within the flap.
9th: My Wife also solved one truly heartbreaking complaint of mine. The moment I say down with my fine, inexpensive, unassuming pend, I noticed that my binding's beautiful inset gem and awesome, durable, functional slasp combined to make it impossible for the front cover to lay flat. I wept for the joy I had in my imagination of the future. It was gone; my yow was a mere pretty curio.
My Wife healed my heart, by telling me...
10th: that she agreed with me that writing only on the left of the fold was a fine way to journal in this book.
I had noticed that was an option while speaking to Her my complaint. Or maybe I heard Her think it, which is definitely a thing that happens between Her and I. We've been married long enough; it is expected.
In which taking
credit for noticing is
both silly and lonely.
11th - I noticed I was wrong that writing on the right side was not only possible, but quite pleasant.
I expected the girth of small area or bumpy paper, or all combined, to require me to securely hold down the journal in order to write. But in practice it was no challenge at all to roll my pend's tip over the paper and produce a legible script.
Do not expect failure,
nor disappointment.
12th: I noticed I could alter the appearance of my handwriting by adjusting the position of the book. My hand could take any comfortable position and grip.
I had long before discovered that I could effect a stylization of my writing by changing my grip. But all grips required some level of strain. This journal, on the other hand, causes very little. And ergonomic variety is always available.
13th I noticed that, although the paper was not flat, and the flow of ink not consistent, and pen grip imperfect...in spite of all those things, my writing was still legible. At least to me.
I could write smaller words without loss of legibility, even. This challenged everything I had believed about how to have clear writing.
No really, gel-rollers
are fantastic.
14th I noticed that I had a little piece of modern printing, and it bothered me to retain it.
"Aha!" I thought. I could simply transcribe its value into the journal itself, so no extra tedium was needed. But by then I had already started my thematic writing. Already dreamed of transcribing, publishing, and of leaving the original as a treasurable artifact.
Well...the paper and ink only. Not the binding. It is removable and reusable, after all.
A bookmark, then? No: the flap for that.
15th - there was an empty left side page. And so what if it was uncomfortable? It was only a single page to write on a bumpy ball of lapis and protruding clasp. I can tolerate one page.
It turned out to be no strain at all. Poor penmanship, perhaps. But I was still learning to write clearly and without mental barrier. I spoke to the shopkeeper for the last time.
You can always
thank someone more.
16th I noticed that there were only 11 leaves of this cottom paper. I had hoped for more. 40 seemed like a good number, again because I had dreams of publishing.
I convinced myself that fewer would be acceptable. But now, seeing and feeling the last page approaching, I know that my self was not entirely convinced.
To make a plan to cut off my list, or to prioritize amoung options and forget others...it seems so sad. I don't want to.
17th that my nice pend's ink could be seen through the other side of the paper.
But not seen clearly.
Some pages not at all.
Affected by my grip?
Or by cotton's thickness?
And because I spaced lines,
Never the whole page.
Definitely when held to a light. But that is good, and beside the point.
18th that the shop keep might have lied. These pages cannot easily be de-bound. At least, not one 11-leaf bunch at a time.
I am sorry, Stephanie, to have maligned. You could never have known that I would wish to cut one single folded bundle of five.
19th that were was no need to cut a bundle. To do so would disproportion the perfect sizes of the flap and bunches and pen holder.
True, I had hoped to finish these 40 observations within a single bunch. But as my Princess so often says: I can handle disappointment.
Existence,
not Acceptance.
20th thing I noticed:
This journal seems to hold some subtle magic. Each time I believe I have disappointed, I realized that I was wrong.
Anything I believe to be impossible...simply is not.
- 40 things?
- In the first 11 folds?
- One thing per half-fold?
Won't I ruin it?
If I do not give up?
Two times eleven is fourty-two
This is
the end.
Could be.
Might be.
Is not
21st: No, fool. Only ending early would ruin it.
New pen though. Felt tip. 0.5, baby.
I don't need numbers anyway. It stopped being fun to count them down.
Also it turned int oa fun game to aim for the last page. Now that I nailed it, it's obvious what number I'm on.
This new pen might be too limiting. Felt and cotton don't mix, maybe. They seem to be vulnerable to bleed. And unlike my gel rollered scrawl, I do not think my writing looks nice even when blurred beyond verifiable spelling. But with proper space...
In fact, it might be better for it to be less legible. It will make it harder to be distracted when starting from the begining if the words are only barely discernable.
No 18th date? Strange.
17
^- My felt pen can definitely bleed, but I have to allow it to linger. With a light touch, no problem. Some times my strokes join together, though that comes from my paper sprinting back up to meet it. This pen requires even less pressure than the gell roller. Amazing. I chose it because it was finer; it would make smaller strokes. You would tihnk the bleed might ruin that. You'd be wrong.
42 is the real magic number, and not for some other writer's meme. I don't know when I decided I to be cryptic - it's just the number I substract from to find my bearings in the new page count. (ooooh, oblique grip angle produces fine lines indeed.)
I needed to solve that trivial math problem several times to find the correct figure. Maybe I don't want to spoil a surprise for the reader that eventually finds this journal. I hope it isn't pride in my meager discovery.
I learned several pages ago (can't say exactly) that it does not matter the appearance of the words. Nor sticking to a theme. I can write whatever I want. Because this book is a thing for me. I can copy the words later, as long as I can see them.
It was not uncomfortable, and it was no strain! There was never any limitation but that which I imposed on myself. I could have been writing on both sides of the paper the entire time! I was avoiding a problem that didn't exist.
But I am so glad that I did. I am glad I imposed a pointless constraint on myself. It created a wonderful, weird, unexpected outcome. And the oppoortunity to try this thing with upside downness. It can be an homage to my Princess.
In solving my simple problem of multiples of two and folds and spares, of 2s and fives, and then 11, and somehow 3 and 7.
And then I realized that it was a simple matter of counting from 1, or some other gence post error, and all my confusion melted.
Maybe my ability to publish is lost, this being such a personal journey of mind.
So what if I do not publish? Sure, t'would be fun. But if I allow publishing to halt my pend, then I will have nothing to publish.
I have learned this crucial lesson already: showing your writing is not what makes you a writer. Writing is. I write for me. Not to be known. I am already known. And by abandoning my desire to write what might be broadly read, my writing becomes better.
OR! the opposite. I could publish. I should not be afraid to rpesent my work to an audience, for fear that they might not appreciate. I write for those who do. And I write for me. I will find any comradery with others, and not fear the others.
Read my wild rambling.
Begin and do not finish.
I don't take a journey for
the sake of those who don't.
I will meet you at the end.
We will recollect the middle.
Pity those who told us not to go
But did not miss us.
If I mix truth in with imagination
or the reverse
Fact and fiction benefit both.
If I call it a story
Or just a string of thoughts
To keep a theme
To vary, profane
To me, no worry, all the same
Oct Seven - yesterday's marathon
I surprised myself with those twenty-four pages. Not all one sitting, and that last stanza only just not early this morn. The length was not too wild; I knew I could endure when my spirit willed it. And I had mustered that will quite recently, for a different audience which was stolen, and for much greater physical suffering.
The surprise was I was not certain I could so much of this project. Perhaps ever. 40 pages felt impossible for me. Maybe it still seems that way, when I consider my initial mindset of attempting a chronological memoire on this very inspirational notebook.
But I was so correct 22 pages ago - this notebook is magic. It melts all barriers. I hope it is inexhaustible.
Problem, Algorithm,
Program, Process.
Change the first if you can.
- Richard Buckland
That basic arithmetic continues to be challenging for me. Why would I use a silly mnemonic - I have no appreciated them at any point in my younger life, so no need to start now.
But that is not true (I have used them; not for math). I recall that other folks' devices seemed silly. I did not need to benefit from them, so why must I hear their virtues as if they were the miracle of memory?
Because they helped someone, and that someone helped another. My lack of need does not mean that help should not exist.
Just like this writing, it is for the folks who appreciate it. Those who do not may suffer its existence quietly, or loudly while far away, or they may realize there is no one obliging them to suffer.
For real though...just count. It is easier that subtracting from some counterintuitive term.
But no no no - I wish to return to the theme. I also wish to not reveal to casual glance that the theme is practiced. So I must keep some detail in my own mind and that of anyone trusted enough to read this original.
I did try counting, but I already lost it by changing my setting.
I thought of a better memory aid anyway; no more silly substraction. I realized I'm approaching an end again.
I don't feel the same dread that affected me at the halfway mark. Maybe because it is the goal that I intended. Maybe because I already unburdened myself from that same goal. Or that I've overcome it once.
Instead I feel an excitement to meet the goal to the best of my ability. To make this creative work as good as it possible can be. The next five pages are an opportunity, a gift, and to be treasured. Savored.
Not too fast.
Not too slow.
When I put my triple-line conclusion markets in yesterday's writing, I think it made me faster. I was always ready to stop. I lost lines of thought, sure, but some thoughts deserve that fate. The good ones found their way back to me.
I was not paralyzed.
I paused for pace.
I kept up.
I went far.
Good thoughts end.
I did not expect to have time.
It might have been foolish to try to find it.
I doubted when I did find.
a nagging fear of some other, urgent attention target.
Something that would make me regret.
No such imaginary anguish appeared.
I am glad I did not seek it.
I sought this joy instead.
My joy was gone.
I could not imagine it.
No matter.
A slow pace.
I will reencounter.
Still, who ever caught something by standing still?
I did. Right where I left it.
It kept flying.
It caught me.
Twice in as many
Further than I've ever
I've gone so far.
I am. Successfully.
Where I began.
to My Wife.
By Seth Battin This article was published under: Writing