Ever feel like writing in a journal? I do sometimes. When I read about some average guy being the key to unlocking the mystery of the 1900s or something. His scribbles sketch out the mundane things that time has long since covered up. 

I struggle with it, though. It is much easier to type it out and tumble that shit. Maybe just tweet. Maybe just not recap my day to myself. The hardest part is doing it with any regularity. The moment passes, and I don’t feel like my Wake Up, Work, Come Home, Eat, Internet, Sleep was worthy of the ink on a notepad. 

Worse is re-reading anything you’ve written before. I found some old poetry –yes poetry– I did back in high school. It is terrible, cliché, horrible, and mine. 

Sometimes I try to kick start the thing by buying a bad-ass journal. Something leather-bound and fucking awesome. The problem with that? Well, I feel like only cool stuff should be in it. I can’t sully the Awesome with musings on the gyro I got from the mall. 

I have a similar problem with drawing. My best drawings are on scratch sheets and envelopes. My sketchbooks lie unopened somewhere in a pile among cheap, moleskine-knockoffs, also unfilled. 

This was originally published here