8-Steps for Choosing a Journal That You’d Actually Use
The Journal Conundrum: How to Pick One That Won’t Spend Eleven Months Reproachfully in a Drawer
One day, quite out of the blue, you find yourself seized by an irresistible urge to journal. It's rather like that sudden enthusiasm for jogging that strikes on New Year's Eve—full of noble intentions, visions of a more reflective, organised self emerging from the chrysalis of one's former slothful existence.
You picture yourself scribbling profound insights over morning coffee, capturing fleeting thoughts with the elegance of a Victorian diarist, perhaps even unburdening the odd grievance about the neighbour's hedge. It's all terribly warming and invigorating, until, of course, you actually sit down and realise you haven't a clue what to write, or indeed where to write it.
And so begins the hunt for the perfect journal, a process that turns out to be astonishingly complicated.
You wander into a stationer's—or, more likely these days, scroll through an online emporium—and discover an array of notebooks that would baffle even the most seasoned explorer.
There are slim volumes that look as if they've been designed for jotting grocery lists, fat tomes that could double as doorstops, and everything in between, in colours and patterns that range from sober black to something resembling a explosion in a confetti factory. It's rather like standing in the cereal aisle of a vast American supermarket, confronted by 47 varieties of cornflakes, each promising nutritional enlightenment but delivering much the same soggy outcome.
Inevitably, your eye alights on a cheap spiral-bound affair, the sort that costs less than a cup of coffee and feels about as substantial. You hesitate, wondering if this is really the vessel for your precious musings—the fleeting genius, the heartfelt confessions. After all, do the profundities of one's inner life deserve to be consigned to something that could be mistaken for the notepad used by a harassed plumber to tally his invoices?
At the other extreme, there's the leather-bound beauty with gilded edges, thick creamy pages, perhaps even a little lock to keep prying eyes at bay. It exudes gravitas, the sort of thing Samuel Pepys might have fancied. But then doubt creeps in: are your daily ramblings—mostly about the weather, what you had for lunch, and mild irritation at the postman—truly worthy of such opulence? What if, like so many resolutions, the enthusiasm fizzles out by mid-January? I've known people—and, ahem, been one myself—who fill the first few pages with fervent entries on 1st and 2nd January, only to abandon the thing entirely, leaving it to gather dust in a drawer, occasionally surfacing to induce a pang of guilt sharper than any forgotten birthday.
I once splurged on just such a luxurious journal during a fit of optimism in a quaint little shop in Venice, complete with a crystal pen and inkwell. It was bound in soft Italian leather, the pages so thick they practically whispered as you turned them. I carried it home triumphantly, convinced this was the talisman that would transform me into a dedicated chronicler of life. Three weeks later, it contained precisely two entries: one about the excellence of a fish and chip supper, and another lamenting a misplaced umbrella. The journal now resides in a cupboard, reproachfully, alongside a half-finished crossword and a yoga mat that's never been unrolled.
And let us not even speak of digital journals—apps that promise eternal accessibility but somehow manage to feel as soulful as a spreadsheet. No, we'll stick to paper, thank you very much. I’ve listed other scientific reasons for not using them here.
The truth is, there is no perfect journal, any more than there is a perfect pair of trousers or a perfect cup of tea. There is only the one that suits you, at this particular moment, with your particular quirks and frailties.
Trial and error is the usual path—often an expensive one, littered with abandoned notebooks like the relics of failed expeditions. But if you'd like to spare yourself some needless expenditure (and perhaps a tree or two), here are a few considerations that might steer you towards something serviceable:
1. If you're already the sort who writes prolifically without prompting—like those infuriatingly disciplined people who rise at dawn to pen novels before breakfast—then a simple blank journal will do nicely. No frills, just acres of empty page to fill with your torrent of words.
2. For the rest of us mere mortals, who often stare at a blank page wondering where to begin, opt for one with just a few gentle prompts or questions. These reduce that awful friction between intention and action, sparing you the agony of deciding whether to start with "Dear Diary" or a weather report. A good prompted journal is like a kindly uncle nudging you along, rather than leaving you floundering.
3. But do ensure the prompts are good ones—thoughtful, varied and yet not too much; perhaps encouraging gratitude or observation rather than endless navel-gazing. There's nothing worse than a journal that sends you spiralling into rumination, turning what should be a pleasant habit into a bout of mild depression.
4. Avoid those that tempt you to spend more time decorating than writing. I've seen enthusiasts devote hours to elaborate templates, washi tape borders, and doodles, only to produce a scrapbook rather than a journal. Charming, perhaps, but rather missing the point.
5. Similarly, steer clear of overly introspective ones that insist on daily emotional autopsies. A little self-reflection is fine, but too much can leave one feeling like a hypochondriac of the soul—overly sensitive and prone to brooding.
6. Look for something with a simple indexing system, with numbered pages. Otherwise, months later, when you desperately want to revisit that brilliant insight about life (or where you parked the car), you'll flip through in vain and eventually give up in despair.
7. Choose a size that's portable without being cumbersome—not so bulky that you leave it at home, muttering excuses about forgetting it. I favour something around A5, which slips into a bag without protest.
8. On the flip side, avoid the diminutive pocket versions unless you're unusually concise. There's little more frustrating than scattering thoughts across a dozen tiny notebooks, only to lose half of them down the sofa.
In the end, the ideal journal is one that quietly encourages you to return to it, day after day, fostering the gentle reminder that you're growing wiser, kinder, more insightful with every entry. It won't transform you overnight—no notebook is that miraculous—but it might, over time, become a rather agreeable companion.
If you've any further thoughts on this peculiar pursuit, or tales of your own notebook misadventures, do drop us a line. I'd be delighted to hear them.
Happy hunting—and may your chosen journal prove more faithful than most New Year's resolutions.