Notebooks, and their inevitabe doodles

When I was very little, my stories were shared out loud. I came up with them on the spot, writing them  out loud, sharing them with those who were willing to listen. It was entertainment for me, and, in some sense, a way of bonding with the people around me. Stories were always running through my head. Following them, running after them, gathering up the fragments and trying to weave them into something tangible was always a natural impulse for me.

Continue after the jump for more words and a boatload of doodles!

 

When I was twelve, I decided -- impulsively, on one fine afternoon -- to start a writing notebook. At this age, I was becoming more shy, more self-aware, and increasingly ambitious. My urge to share stories remained, and I kept that up, with friends and family and the internet. But I think I was craving something a bit more intimate. I wanted something that was quite thoroughly mine, and mine alone. A safe space to practice and explore. In the back of my mind were grand ambitions, thoughts of truly beautiful stories, visions of dignified nigh-on mystical authors bent over their desks working hard at their craft and I felt like I could be one of them. So I grabbed some plain old notebook, wrote on the first page that it was my writing notebook (by declaring that it would be filled with "bits of writing and snatches of tales"), and penned its first piece of story, with awful scribbly handwriting and neon ink. That first story lasted about three pages, before I switched to something else.

I still keep exactly the same sort of writing notebook. When I ran out of pages in that first notebook, I got another one. And another. I simply never stopped. A chain of scribbly stories leading from twenty-one all the way back to twelve. A notebook I keep close at hand, for whenever I feel like writing fiction purely for my own entertainment. My safe-haven of creativity. 

 

I kept it simple, and I kept it flexible. Organization wasn't a concern. I switched stories frequently, started or abandoned stories at whim, filled pages and pages with ridiculous notes between scenes--whatever I wanted. I simply put up notice whenever I switched, to keep things from being completely confusing. It was kind of gritty and haphazard, but that’s the environment I enjoy working in.

I would write at my desk. I would write while lying in bed. I would write on vacation. Storytelling is addictive, and I found I really did enjoy having these stories of my own. I liked that they were mine--just mine--and I never wanted to share the stories they held. I needed the sense of freedom that the solitude brought me. I was forging my own relationship with words, exploring story and what it meant to me. And these were experimental works. None of them were finished, none of them were ready. Over time, I grew increasingly protective of these notebooks. I didn't leave them lying about, and began to feel pretty nervous at the thought of anyone looking through one. 

In addition to the writing notebook, I also kept a journal. Diaries always seemed like a fun, comforting thing, and journal seemed very scholarly and exciting, so I wanted to keep some sort of diary or journal, too. I tried to imitate what I saw in TV or elsewhere, where folks write the date and then diligently record what happened to them that day (but I always thought the "Dear Diary" thing was pretty silly, so I scrapped that). But I quickly found that I had little patience for just recording the events of my life. And so it rapidly transformed into a gritty, haphazard stream-of-consciousness notebook. A stream-of-consciousness notebook is where you just turn to a blank page and write whatever you're thinking, without purpose, without much care, just to see what happens, or just to get your thoughts out of your head, for meditative purposes, or just because. I wrote about whatever I was putting a lot of thought into. I wrote about little things that annoyed me, or worried me. And just like the writing notebook, I never stopped. I still keep what I call a diary/stream-of-consciousness notebook.

Whenever I feel like it, I open it up, write down the date and time, and then start scribbling out whatever happens to be on my mind, even if it's only "there's nothing on my mind right now, but I felt like writing, so here I am." Sometimes I just write about how I feel lousy and my head hurts. Sometimes I sit down and try to work out problems, or figure out emotions and goals. If I feel stuck, this is the space where I can admit to myself that I feel stuck, and then I can just chill and think about why, and think about how I can fix it--or sometimes admitting it is all I need. Sometimes it's just a chance to turn away from what might be bothering me, and look at what I really love, what I might be excited about and enthused for. Other times I’m writing just to write, and it’s simply relaxing and fun.
When I'm putting words down on paper, the ideas and thoughts in my head expand, and so this notebook feels essential to me as a way of thinking out loud, of building up thoughts and working things out.

And there are many, many times when what I write about is only what has happened (or what might happen) in my favorite TV show or book. My parents might joke that I'll soon be writing horrible things about them in my journal, and it's with an odd mix of humor and guilt that I assure them I won't be doing that; for I know full well that the last thing I wrote was a twenty-page essay on my latest favorite character, and that my family is hardly mentioned at all in my haphazard journalings. 

You'll notice my lack of schedules and rules when it comes to these notebooks. There are times when I don't write in them that much. There are other times when I write feverishly. It doesn't matter. These notebooks are meant to be there when I need them. That's it. They're not trying to serve some grand purpose. They just make me feel at peace. I need them, and it's why they exist. If I haven't written in my stream-of-consciousness notebook for a while, I start to feel itchy. My fingers twitch for my pen. If I don't turn to my writing notebook now and then, my head starts to feel full to bursting with miscellaneous scenes and jumbled dialogue crying out for freedom. When I write, I feel better. It's a natural mode of expression, something I crave as much as food or air. An essential part of my life.

Art is the same way. A natural way of expressing myself, vital and essential, something I just can't stop. Doodling and idle sketching is one of the reasons I do so love writing by hand. When I get lost in thought, pondering some difficult topic, or just letting my brain rest between chapters, my pen starts doodling in the margins. The same patterns have been repeating themselves for years: looping vines have always been soothing and meditative. Faces, hands, cats, soda cans. I think it's interesting to see what comes up, to see the shapes my mind turns to when it wanders. Drawing helps me think. The idle sketching helps my mind keep moving. It's almost an automatic reflex at this point. I start thinking about how a scene ought to play out, and before I know it there's a dove perched on the side of a page.

Curious, and wanting to see what these doodles might look like all together, I decided to go back through a large selection of both writing notebooks and diaries, to snap photos of the best doodles. "Best" being my favorites and the ones I felt were most representational. There are more squiggly vines than anyone cares to see, and so many birds and cats that eventually you've gotta start cutting some out. Doodles are usually quick and small, because I usually pause for only a moment between bits of writing, but occasionally you'll find doodles where it's clear that I sat there for some time, very much lost in thought:

What follows are my remaining "showcase doodles", compiled and presented without comment. I do admit to doing a pretty shoddy job taking photographs for these, and will definitely do a better job if I ever photograph a bunch of notebook doodles again.