The journal collector.

Of blank journals, I have many.

Notoriously so, they are arranged tightly in a bookshelf in my bedroom. Of filled journals, I have many, but there is always a large collection of blank journals and books, waiting.

“Why are you buying that?” I’ve been asked when purchasing yet another blank journal. “You already have lots of them!”

This is difficult to explain to a person who isn’t in love with the blank book. I’m picky about what I’ll use for a journal — it must fall open easily, and have a smooth page texture, without a fussy cover image or printing on the pages, among other qualities — and so when I find a book that I immediately know is right, whether I need it in that moment or not, I buy it.

Sometimes I find them in an office supply store; I’ve even found a few at gas stations. Bookstores, art fairs — the perfect journal lurks in unusual places.

The thing is, I do use them. Eventually. I know that when I’ve filled up one, I can go and sit on the floor in front of the bookshelf that houses the next one, and I start pulling them from the shelf until I find one and I know that this is the next one.

Seems a little silly, probably, but it’s true.

It’s especially important when I’m going on a trip or taking part of an event; I thumb through the journals until I suddenly know I’ve found the perfect book. Maybe it’s the cover or the pages or the size — something about it says “this one and not that one.” I didn’t know what I’d use it for when I bought it, only that I liked it, but I always know, sooner or later, it was meant for something.

Journals are frightening in some ways, the blank pages staring back like a reminder of things to come that I may or may not be prepared for, but there’s always something about the moment when I pull one off the shelf and know that this is the next book in which I will write about my life and thoughts.

It’s wide open, blank, and waiting for this moment.