The Best Journals & Notebooks

Of course I have lots of notebooks. In my parents' attic there is a box crammed with my childhood and teen diaries. The number lies somewhere in the 30s, and, despite them being filled with cringey garbage about boys and how hard my life was, I sort of love how well documented my life has been. Since the internet came along (...and full time work, and an adult social life), I find it harder and harder to find the time to sit down and write, but my collection of notebooks and journals continues to grow. 

The truth is, even though it's unlikely I'll ever fill these books like I did when I was younger, the possibility is always there. It's a source of comfort, knowing I always have paper to turn to. 

My favourite notebooks range from prayer diaries, 'blog-spiration', to creative writing ideas and a journal I have kept for more than two years. 

My mum gave me this book for Christmas. I use it to write notes on sermons at church. I'm not sure where she got it from, but the pattern and colours are brilliant.

I was given this journal by a lovely family from church for my 21st Birthday. The quality of the paper is excellent and the journal itself is beautiful, even just to hold. I use it as my prayer diary and it's my favourite of the favourites. I'm sure this can be found online, but this was bought from a shop in town called Fortysix. It opened last spring and it sells all sorts of things from stationery and clothes to jewellery and interior decorations and furniture. I love it.

My 'diary' since 2012. I'm not sure how I should feel about the fact that in 2005 I could fill two or three diaries, but I haven't finished this in more than two years. Life is busy. There's less time to dwell on it, but I still manage to stuff cinema tickets from dates in the past years, reminding me of the people who made me happy and gave me memories to keep. Available to buy here. 

My mum got me this journal from Italy about two years ago. The colours are some of my favourites, and, again, the quality is impeccable. I use this book to write in when I am feeling anxious or down. I turned to this book when I felt the first pangs of depression. The pattern on the cover seems fitting to how I feel when going through a bout of depression. Strange, unrecognisable, stretched, swirly, unusual, new, unique...

Battered and stained by hot chocolate from three years spent writing in bed, this Krispy Kreme notebook was a gift from my brother-in-law which I used for all my creative writing notes throughout uni. I love krispy kreme doughnuts and this was my favourite notebook throughout uni – it is a little bit past it's best now, though.

This soft black book is from Paperchase. I got it in the sale and what I love about it is it has three sections of paper – plain, grid and lined. I knew straight away it would be used for What Naomi Wrote, and when I go out to review somewhere, I take this with me so I can make those all important notes. The bunny rabbit postcard is from Le Pain Quotidien.

And this is one of the latest additions to my collection, which has a number of fantastic quotes inside:

This book is great for when I need to rant (which is a lot of the time), and can be bought here. There are lots of 'trigger' journals out there which I love – one of which was featured on Emma's blog, Reverie Lane, yesterday, and is now on my Amazon wishlist.

Do you love journals and notebooks as much as I do? What are your recommendations? Come September I know I'll be shopping for stationery... I may have finished education but I just can't get over that back to school feeling, and new notebooks are a must. A writer can never have too many.

That Published Feeling

Writing presents itself with some amazing opportunities, the most obvious being that it gives you the chance to get what is on your heart out into the world. Even if no one reads what you have written, it is there – in print, and someday, someone might just read it. There is always the chance that your reader will take something from your work – whether it be in the form of entertainment, education, enlightenment or empathy – writing and reading offer endless interpretations, and that is something I will never cease to find incredibly liberating as a lover of both things myself.

While studying for my degree in creative writing, I had some amazing writing experiences and opportunities. One of these was getting published in the University's anthology of creative writing, Fire. In February the launch of the book of new writing finally came around and when I got my copy I was so excited. My story, Crohnicle, was in print forever, for anyone willing to read it.

For years I had wanted to write about having Crohn's disease, and in an autobiography module, I finally got the chance to have a go at it. With the help of my fantastic tutor, Tyler Keevil (check out some of his work here) some friends and family I wrote what had been on my heart, properly, for the first time in six years.

I think it's important that I make it clear that without my degree, my writing would never have developed enough to achieve this, and I have the amazing lecturers on the course to thank for that. You can read more about them here :)

Any writers reading this will know the feeling of seeing your name, and work, in print. It's the biggest sense of achievement imaginable. You really feel like you've made it, even if it's just for a few days, when the buzz begins to fade. But it never really goes away, when you look back and remember what you have done, it comes back.

I was working so I couldn't go to the launch but I was sent a copy of the book and have passed it around members of the family to read. Fire is full of interesting and unique stories and poems – and my story, a true story, one that was just waiting to be told.

Writing an autobiographical short story is terrifying. But in some respects, all fictions derives from experiences and is reflected in the writer. Anyone could be reading this. But for me, that's what writing is about. I like to think I write for a universal audience. Crohnicle is a story that I want everyone to read, yet no one, at the same time. It's a story about when I got diagnoed with Crohn's disease, something I think about every day. It's like a diary entry – I wrote it with a reader in mind, but didn't think anyone would actually read it. But they did, and it's OK. It's good, actually. It was published.  

 

Sometimes, it's the pleasing your loved ones that's the most rewarding when it come to publications, and I think I did just that when Fire got passed around the family to read Crohnicle. You know when you think you're not that good at what you do, and then you see that your work has made someone cry? That's a powerfully rare feeling.

I Drove Home Backwards

Freezer fresh rain splats on my windscreen

I inch my way through traffic

clip a kirb to let an ambulance through

sing the next line of that song they play on Radio 1

every day.

It was dark when I left for work this morning

and here I am again.

I swing in and around cars parked on the road

then whoosh onto the long one where

I can be by myself and hum along with the engine.

The clouds streak the sky like tracks on an ice rink

clear and bright and it begins to get brighter.

My windows are closed but I can smell the delicious rain

spitting off the ground, warming 

with each rough turn of the wheels I roll along with.

My eyes shift to the landscape, like a camera 

in and out of focus

and the liquorice tunnel beneath me becomes a record

playing my own song.

White welcomes me home

in a puff swirled on the top of a mountain

sprinkled with snow.

I wind into the embrace of a town 

I am half-heartedly attached to.

Its eyes are fixed, its hands held tight

and feet are firmly on the ground.

My home – where wind, rain and snow 

settle down with no hesitation

and decide they belong.

But I drove home backwards

and there's nobody in.

Twenty Minute Friends

To the guy I found myself sitting next to on my train journey back from London,

I stood arm weighed down by my bag filled with food and stuff. Stuff like my pills and three water bottles which I had to pack just in case, and my purse I've had since I was sixteen. Five different shades of lipstick, in stain, gloss and balm form. I had a book to read, and my new diary, and a notebook, and a journal. But only one pen, right at the bottom of all that stuff.

Some hyper-active children were running about the place squealing at strangers. At about eight or nine they looked too old to be behaving that way, but we all develop at different ages, don't we? That's what I've been thinking about this past year. I have these things going on in my head for a long time, and eventually some sort of conclusion is made - influenced by just one thing someone might say that makes me think, yes, that's it - that's exactly it. But I haven't got there with this one yet. I still ponder over the fact that we all develop at different ages. And when do we finally get there? What is the final destination?

Eventually the platform was announced for our train and a herd of suitcases hurry their way behind their owners, and I followed, unbuttoning my coat along the way, sipping on the orange mocha that I regretfully bought from Starbucks. It tasted like orange peel, and too much sugar.

I used to come to London with my ex boyfriend, but London is so big that it doesn't get marked by people or memories so much. Every time you go there you make new ones, and the taste of the past still is there in the present, but it's not too strong - not too painful. We used to play this game where we would guess what platform our train would be on on the way back home, the tension building in Paddington station as passengers waited, eyes glued to the screens for the number to flash on - it was never announced until just a few minutes before departure. I remember winning once. Platform one.

But that evening I met you I was going somewhere else entirely. I was glad that I hadn't booked a table seat, at least. Inevitable eye contact and brushing legs and too many bags. I like to stare into the back of the seat and listen to whatever is going on behind me, or think about tomorrow or the weekend or talk to God or just listen to my crazy thoughts and either take them too seriously and panic or laugh. But that evening - 2nd January 2014 - I found myself reading my book. I read for the longest time. Maybe I just didn't want to talk to you. I can't even remember your name. Sorry. It really isn't anything personal.

About twenty minutes before my stop you turned to me, plucked the earphones out of your ears and put forward a hand.

"Hi, I'm bored, that's why I want to talk," you said. I know why I didn't believe you - because I'm naive and skeptical at all the wrong times. You genuinely were bored, I knew that the moment we parted ways, and you did just want to talk. But straight away I thought of ways to get out of this, knowing you would ask for my number at the end of it all, thinking of an excuse, all the way through the following.

"That's ok," I said, dog-earring the page of my book and putting it into my bag.

"What's your name?"

"Naomi." Then the look. "Nay-oh-me." Unfortunately, I had to repeat a third time. This wasn't the best start.

Soon enough I was telling you all about my Christmas and New Year, where I went to uni, how I was starting a new job on Monday, everything I had been thinking over the words I was reading in my book previously.

We had a fair amount in common. You said you lived in Scunthorpe but really you just work there. I can't remember the name of the village you said you lived in. You said you studied engineering or something, but again, my memory fails me. It's not that I don't care, but when these things happen, I forget the important information straight away. You told me your name and I forgot almost instantly because I'm too busy examining your face, wondering why on earth you thought it a good idea to get your tragus pierced (perhaps you think the same about me), figuring out your story, when really I should wait to be told.

It was easy saying goodbye. It was nice, in fact. And then when I walked away I felt a sense of relief, like I had achieved something, like I just finished an exam that I just knew I had passed. Maybe I am getting better at being an adult. Thank you for that. We were friends for twenty minutes, I am sure of it.

From,
Naomi.

Post Uni Life: Buying My First Car

Had someone told me this time last year that in a year's time I'd have graduated with a first class honours degree, secured myself a full time job in publishing, and bought my first car, I would not have believed a single word of it. 

I don't know what I was planning last year. I think that was where I went wrong. I seemed to just go along in life without any aspirations for the future, hoping that University would last forever and that I would never have to take responsibility for anything. I'm glad I pulled my finger out and went through all the rubbish I did, because at the end of it all was a whole host of rewards waiting for me, and now I am happier than ever.

So, here's me and my car just after I'd bought it, ready to take it home. Where I'll be working is nowhere near any public transport so a car is essential. I have been on a practice run to the offices but I am still quite nervous for my first day.

It's incredible how quickly things can change - from bad to good, and sometimes good to bad, but that's the best thing; it doesn't take much for one's life to turn around. A few months ago I was thinking I'd have to work in a shop for the next year to save up to move out, but now I have the chance to gain some experience in an industry in which I am very much interested, as well as get back on the road and gain some confidence. 

I know I am extremely fortunate to be in the position that I am, and I know how difficult it is finishing uni without any idea of what to do next, but sometimes things just happen, and I have my friends, family and faith to thank for the way things have turned out for me.

It is such a big step in becoming an adult in the real world and getting your first car. I feel like now I will grow even more independent and stronger as an individual, and I hope that when I am traveling to and from work every day I remember to count my blessings and thank God for all of it.

Word of the Week

This week when I was reading, I came across a word I had never heard of before. I wrote it down to look up in the dictionary later on, and I thought to myself, I'll write about this on my blog, because then it is more likely to stick, and maybe you will learn something new too - or maybe you have a better vocabulary than me and already know this word.

The word was 'bonhomie' - frank and simple good heartedness.

"So now, to prove he was happy, here he was, trying to sparkle with bonhomie."*

The funny thing with words, vocabulary and language is that we judge people and their intelligence, or worth, according to what words they know, and to what extent they can deliver a strong sentence or speech, whether it be in writing or in the spoken word. But how is that a measure of worth? How is that a measure of intelligence? It is something that interests me and I think about it a lot, and I do wish my own vocabulary was more varied as language is one of the greatest gifts in life. It is something that is never finished. Language and words - they are what keep us alive.

*Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go, Faber and Faber Limited, London, 2010, p.97.

Review - Collected Quotations Journal

 

Back in August, my Grandpa came to visit and one day we took a trip to Crickhowell, a town just down the road from Abergavenny. A quaint little place, the high street is dotted with independent coffee shops, clothing, jewellery and accessory stores and my favourite - 'Book-ish' - an independent book shop.

I love to go into Book-ish to get ideas for Birthday and Christmas present ideas. The range of products is fantastic. There is something for everyone, including artwork, fiction, non-fiction, stationery and childrens books, plus much more. I always see something I love that I have to put on my own wishlist. 

On this occasion, I found this beautiful hardback journal 'Collected Quotations - A Journal to Record and Remember Words of Wisdom.'*

I am a bit of a hoarder of notebooks, journals - anything I can write in. I have a box of old diaries stored up in the attic and more stuffed in a drawer under my bed. I counted them once and the grand total was 33. What I had to write about so desperately, I don't know. I dare not read back through them. I have told my family, however, that when I die they have full permission to do whatever they wish with them. Read them, give them away, burn them, whatever.

Anyway, Book-ish has the tendency to draw me in at the worst of times - when I have no spare money to spend on a new book, poster or diary. However, my Grandpa saw me eyeing up this journal and insisted he buy it for me. As soon as I got home I wrote my name in it and it has been a treasure ever since.

 

Inside is a content page of each section in which you can write down your favourite quotes. I love the size, colour and style of the font. (Font is always important).

Each 'chapter' of the journal opens with a quote from a source relevant to the topic. 

And on each page is a space where you can write your favourite quotes, the date, source and any notes you may wish to add.

Every so often you'll come across a page which has been illustrated with a famous quote:

The artwork is one of the reasons I love this journal so much. I think it is unique and interesting, unlike a lot of tacky looking journals you see on the high street.

Some pages have extra space - for example in the Speeches chapter, where more space is obviously needed.  

This is my favourite section which, as you can see I have already made a start on. I am trying to only write down significant, startling or eye-opening quotes:

I like this one purely because I love Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz:

Some of the things my family come out with should definitely be noted, for comical reasons, mostly, but as my Grandpa gave this journal to me I would like to include some of the words of wisdom he has given me over the years.

I really like the 'Other Sources' section, because you never know what you might overhear on the train or read in an article.

This would make a fantastic gift for a friend or family member as Christmas is coming up. I wanted to share it with you all because it is so beautiful and something I have been looking for for a long time. I have a feeling I'll be filling this journal with my favourite quotations for many years to come.

You can visit the Book-ish website here where a selection of their stock is available to view and purchase. Or, if you're in the area, you can visit the shop at: 23 High Street, Crickhowell, Powys NP8 1BD. 

Is there anyone else who likes to hoard an unhealthy amount of journals? I find there is something very therapeutic about writing in new - and old - notebooks.

*Published by Chronicle Books, San Fransisco, 2012.

The Day I Forgot

Day 11: A moment in history.

Source

I remember sitting, slumped on my bed trying to write this post a few weeks ago. I was busy that day - doing what, I don't know. 

I wanted to write about something meaningful. Something, like, a real moment in history. Like when women got the right to vote, and racial segregation became a thing of the past (almost), but really, to write about something so big in one day would be wrong. I don't know nearly enough to write about any of those things and it would take a lot longer than 24 hours to write about a significant moment in history.

So, a moment in history of this 30 day creative writing challenge is Day 11: The Day I Forgot. When whatever I was doing was seemingly more important than what I love to do - write. I could have gotten up at six o'clock, worked on this post all day, tried really hard, but I didn't. And now I am compromising a potentially great post by writing about my laziness and forgetfulness.

I have learned a lot from writing. About myself, other people, things, and the world. Reading is just as good. And that is what I am going to do today. Read and write, so I can get better, and remember the quote in the image above. 

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter & bleed.

The City

Day 24 & 25: The City/A Poem

I don't want to be here.

I want to be in the city.

It's fast and bright and dark and

night whenever you want it to be

there. Everyone's your friend,

yet no one says hello or goodbye. 

Don't smile on the tube. Just don't.

It's all happening in the city.
TV, films, jobs, money.

We'd better all go down there,

'cause we're missing out being anywhere else

and no one cares about you here.

Once you're in you're in. 

You can carry a briefcase then too,

grab a coffee for the commute.

Buy your £8 sandwich and smoothie for lunch.

Travel an hour to get back to your dream pad

and smoke in your living room. 

Standing at the Precipice.

Day 23: Standing at the precipice.

Source

It's only when it's passed that you realise how close you were. People, diaries, songs have to tell you how you lost weight, wouldn't eat anything, couldn't walk properely. And then you remember. How it felt like it would be forever. That's just your life now. But it's only when it's passed you realised how bad it was, and how close you were. 

When death is right infront of you, it is an inviting, calm, quiet and still thing. Your friend. Peace. But when it's right infront of you, you don't think of it. Dying never crossed your mind. You were so absorbed in the sleep, pills, appointments, procedures, television programmes, that death never crossed your mind until it furthered away - until it left you for another day. It was like someone was pulling you back, picking you up and carrying you back to safety. If you had fallen, then it really wouldn't have mattered - not to you. Death was a way out, that's all.

Now, when you have a bad day, it feels worse than all the bad days joined together back then. A bad day sandwiched between two good days makes you see what death is. What standing at the precipice really is, what it was really like - because back then your judgment was clouded with numbness from hunger and pain.

It's pathetic, feeling sorry for yourself, but sometimes you need to. Get it out of your system. What does sickness look like anyway?