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My Struggle with Notebook Addiction

No, not the film.

I’m addicted to notebooks.

Family holidays when I was younger inevitably led to the souvenir shop. It’s a place you’re probably familiar with; it’s filled with mugs, coasters, key chains with your name on them, a general assortment of fine crap. My personal favourite, to the ever disappointment of my dad’s wallet, was notebooks.

An empty word document on a glowing computer screen can be intimidating. We’ve all thought the flashing cursor was mocking us at some point. It breeds doubt, insecurity, and fear; at times it can be a petty, evil little thing. I hear the guy who invented it actually end up being arrested for elder abuse.  

old man

Charles Kiesling invented the blinking cursor and he was actually a wonderful family man, this is also not a picture of him, it’s a stock photo that’s free for me to use without any legal repercussions

I find a notebook to be different. It’s a blank canvas, an invitation to create, the promise of endless possibility and freedom.

You know, on paper.

I have a lot of notebooks, and I’m ashamed to say there’s little to nothing in all of them. It sounds very vogue, but I think I’m more in love with the idea of a notebook, rather than the notebook itself.

Truth be told, there is (as often is the case) a dark side to my addiction. If only abandonment was the worst of my sins when it comes to my innocent paper-filled friends.

I actually treat them quite cruelly. The sad same story happens again and again and it’s only now, writing this blog, that I can see the error in my ways.

I complete the first page with meticulous care and a steady hand, like you do with the first page of a workbook in school. Inevitably though, I’ll make a mistake; a smudge, a misspelling, some abandoned idea. This is where the crazy starts. I think to myself; crossing out is messy. I’ll just rip that page out. I’ll be careful, maybe it’ll give the book something of a shabby chic look.

It doesn’t. It always, always, always, looks like crap. Often it’s a fatal decision that just destroys the entire book. To avoid crossing out a simple mistake because I think it’s messy, we now have other pages falling out, jagged protruding staples, and the book spine equivalent of sciatica.

notebook

No, I clearly don’t buy the books designed to have pages ripped out. They don’t look as good. Shut up.

Cards on the table: I’ve very recently bought another notebook. I was shopping with my friends, and one caught my eye. We all bought one, we made a pact to fill them in a year, or suffer each others judgment and scorn. But how exactly am I, the Patrick Bateman of notebook writers, meant to accomplish this? My notebooks have a worse life expectancy than a mayfly.

The answer, I’m actually pretty proud of: I intentionally trashed the first page.

Well…I say trashed, the first page is an agenda of what I want to do in the next year with my writing and with this blog, and number two on that agenda is:

2.) Not destroy this book because of one mastake

That is a bonafide spelling mistake. It happened, I didn’t tear the page out, I didn’t destroy the book, and the world didn’t end.

That’s the self-sabotaging out of the way, now I’ve got a year to fill this bad boy up, and I sure could use your help. I’ve had a google and I’ve entered into a world with terms like morning pages and dream journals, but I know I’ve only scratched the surface.

Do you own your own journal? Do you have any ideas what else I can do with this sexy thing? Please shoot me a comment below.

– H. L

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My First Writing Contest in Almost Ten Years

One of my friends linked me to a creative writing competition that a charity called The Children’s Society is hosting as a part of their Seriously Awkward campaign.

The last writing contest I entered was about ten years ago, all the way back in high school. My entry probably wasn’t very good (mercifully I don’t own a copy) and I never heard back from them – I had just received my first rejection.

First rejection for writing, at any rate.

slap

Her smile said yes, but her hand very clearly said no

I didn’t take the loss well; truth be told it actually put my writing ambitions on hold for a few years – mistake. I’m playing catch up for it now, if I could I’d reach back in time and give that young twerp a smack round the ear. Friggin’ Millennial.

I’m older now, and I’d like to think I’m more mature, well equipped to not only accept my failures but to learn from them. Or, maybe my ego hasn’t changed a bit and the only thing I have to show for my age is deteriorating vision and an expensive mortgage. We’ll soon find out.

The theme of this contest is anything at all to do with 16 and 17-year-olds. Entering the contest means I won’t be able to post the story here (for the time being at least) but there’s no reason I can’t give you a sneak peek at the thought process for my entry.

One of the most awkward first experiences I ever had at sixteen was my first job interview. Job interviews suck, especially your first one. They’re awkward, unnatural social interactions where one side holds all the power. You’re in an unfamiliar environment, you’re most likely wearing unfamiliar clothes, and to top it all off, there’s an unfamiliar person demanding you prove your worth to them.

handshake

Touch it

Seriously, if you’re one of the few people who actually enjoy job interviews – you’re almost definitely demented.

So that was my launching pad. Take the nerves and uncertainty that come with your first job interview, and for a bit of drama let’s multiply the stakes and make it all a billion times worse.

How?

I’m picturing a world, not that far from now, but one where we as a collective have had some terrible hardships, made some terrible decisions. It’s uncannily similar to the world you know now, at first glance at least, but it’s one where its stability is not taken for granted, in fact, it comes at a terrible price. With resources scarce, the United Kingdom has implemented a policy known as The First or Final Interview.

For on the day of their seventeenth birthday, each person must attend their local town hall and have an interview to prove their worth to society. Scholastic achievements, sports, what you’ve done in your spare time; it’s all measured, and it all must be justified. The result is a binary one, you can either pass or fail.

And if you fail – you are put to death. Euthanised, for the good of the state.

Wish me best of luck with the contest – I’ll be sure to share the finished result with you just as soon as I’m able. In the meantime, if you want to help give me some inspiration – leave a comment with your worst job interview horror stories.

– H. L