Category Archives: Paper

Eighty Pages but Nary a Pen That Works

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I like the idea of the Eighty Pages notebooks, but as soon as I got my hands on one I knew there would be issues.

Sometime in December or early January, I was roaming through my various pen addiction enabling websites and a number of them mentioned a Kickstarter project by Eighty Pages, a “small batch” notebook company based in New York City.

I liked the look of the notebooks and because the price was right I joined the Kickstarter and just a few days ago got my notebooks and being an addict, the first thing I did was take pictures of them and the Eighty Pages swag that accompanied them:

Well-made and gorgeous.

Well-made and gorgeous.

On the surface they look great. They are 3.5″ by 5.5″ or about the size of a Field Notes notebook, but I like that they come with more pages. They have thick card stock covers that are hand-stitched to the paper and are embossed with “made by” information on the back cover. Each comes with a serial number. The first number tells you the volume; the second tells you where in the production yours was made. It looks great, but I really don’t care about that information. The stickers are a nice touch but the golf pencil is already at the state where I used to throw out my old pencils back when I still used wood pencils.

I slipped the seal off the red one to fondle the paper because, well, yeah, that’s what you do.

I was immediately worried. The paper is thick, which is nice, but it’s rough. In fact, it reminded me of watercolor paper or the paper that comes in sketch books. It’s designed for pencils, not pens.

I confirmed that by breaking out my fountain pens and doing a little test. Every pen, including those with the widest nibs, scratched and skipped across the paper. The best thing I can say about that experience is there was no show-through or bleed-through at all. A Pilot G2 ballpoint with a .5 mm tip also had trouble. Yeah, that’s right, even a ballpoint pen was scratchy on the paper.

Only the Tacticle Turn Shaker I won in a drawing last year wrote smoothly, mostly because it has a wide Schmidt refill.

Today, I broke out an old drawing pencil I still have from decades ago–see kids, this is why you should never throw things out–and did a quick sketch of something apocalyptic on a back page. The sketch was crap but it confirmed that this is paper for pencils not fountain pens.

This was just a couple passes with 6B. It looks great, for a sketch book.

This was just a couple passes with a 6B pencil. You can see how rough the paper is.

In the end, I like the idea behind Eighty Pages more than I like the notebooks. I’m glad I bought them, although they may get passed to the girls. If you’re looking for a small sketchbook, they might be worth trying out. If you like pens, though, they aren’t worth it.

I hope, in the future, the makers experiment with different types of paper that are more pen friendly. If they do, I’ll probably be first in line to try them.

 

Time and Time and Waste Time and Rejected Again

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Yes, I am a sick man and, yes, I probably have a problem.

I’m in the process of making my calendar for next year. I make my own because 1) I’m picky and 2) it’s more fun than doing real work but leaves me with the impression I’ve actually been working.

During university I had a bad habit of forgetting assignments and meetings and accidentally double booking events. To try to cure myself of this, for many years I tried to use calendars of various sorts. I remember Kansas State University used to publish a school year calendar that may (or may not) have been nicknamed “the Annual” which, I’ll grant you, is a bit like naming it the “school year calendar thingee”. It was a spiral-bound book with one week on two pages. Every year I tried using it but after a month or so abandoned it.

The “school year calendar thingee” had two fatal flaws: 1) spiral-bound and 2) the school itself hogged the days. Basically, the school pre-filled important events, including sports, and it was common for at least one day a week to be completely full before I’d had a chance to enter my information.

I then went through a series of calendars of various sizes but all of them had at least one fatal flaw and I never found them particularly useful.

Then, after I came to Japan, the JET Programmed gave us some small planners that had a full week on each page and included lots of useful information such as medical terms and basic legal advice–which could be summed up as “don’t be stupid” and “Even if you are stupid don’t do stupid stuff”.

I used that planner a lot and, to this day, still kind of miss it.

Eventually I realized I needed a monthly overview and a weekly schedule. This led to me making my own monthly calendars and, eventually, my own bible-sized inserts for a Filofax. (Yes, I actually made them from scratch. I wasted time to make time. Something like that.)

No birthdays here, just a couple holidays.

No birthdays here, just a couple holidays.

Making my own let me add birthdays and pictures of the family.

All my girls in one place.

All my girls in one place several years ago.

My unoriginal cover decoration as to put various versions of “Front” and “Back” on them.

This is the character I used to represent "front".

This is the character I used to represent “front”.

Eventually I even abandoned those. My new planner is a system that involves an electronic calendar on my computer (and which I hopefully will be able to sync to my phone) and a 12 days per page paper calendar that covers the entire year. The 12 days format lets me see what’s coming, but still leaves me room to write.

I’ll probably abandon that in a couple years, too. It’s already in its second incarnation.

 

History in Bytes of Bites

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I think, when the issue is carefully considered, that selfies and lunch portraits make more sense than paper diaries.

A picture of the squid you ate for lunch with the caption “GIANT SQUID!” doesn’t seem all that different to me than recording what you ate in a diary. “Ate squid for lunch. Delicious. Texture of slimy leather.”  The main difference is time. Tweeting a picture of your drink next to your face is much faster than writing “I had a Pina Colada at Trader Vics. My hair was perfect.” (The photo is also less cliche and easier to understand than my handwriting.)

Similarly, a picture of your bloated, red-eyed, tear stained face with the phrase “Life after bitch” is much more effective than endless whinging about your break up and about how she didn’t appreciate you and “What does she see in that p&#@k anyway! I mean, besides a good job and lots of money and perfect hair and great fashion sense and his own private jet what’s he got that I haven’t got? I mean, like what’s a private apartment in Paris when you’ve got my wit and, well, my wit?” (Oh, like you’ve never been dumped for someone like that before.)

Granted, part of the problem with electronic files and storage is that the formats are always changing. I’ve spent many hours moving files from one format to another and making and storing various back ups. (I also now have no way to read old floppy discs.) If we can’t find a way to extract the old data, we lose large pieces of history, but I’m sure some enterprising soul is already working on that problem.

Selfies and photos of your lunch and photos of the jerk on the train and of the great sunset, when taken together, are a terrific record of a life. Even better, they’ve got color and expression.

Now if I just had a better filing system for it all.

 

Tales of Skinned Knees and Broken Hearts

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I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” ― Gwendolen, The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde

Fewer things horrify me more than looking back through my diary. This is partly because it’s pretty horrifying to look back over your life and think “Lacks action” and “needs a plot with more direction.”

Looking back over mine, even with two years in Albania and several years in Japan, I’m always shocked at all the wasted time and all the whining over skinned knees and broken hearts. Even worse is the horrifying sameness. There’s a long period after I got settled into Japan where all the daily posts started with either “Ordinary day” or “Okay day.” Those went on so long that I pretty much stopped recording anything. Mind, you this means that my time in Japan was ordinary but safe and I was protected from living in “interesting times”.

This is also because, as I’ve mentioned before, I find diaries to be largely a waste of time. It’s lots of time and energy spent sending daily letters to yourself. (Unlike blogs which are time and energy spent on sending letters to yourself and a few other people and the kind bots that keep your inbox filled with semi-coherent spam so you know that at least something cares.)

On the other hand, when interesting things do happen in my life, I tend not to write about them for a long time. This means my diaries have long blank periods often spanning years. Although I have an entry on proposing to She Who Must Be Obeyed, I don’t have an entry about any of our three wedding ceremonies. I also don’t have entries on the births of either daughter. I didn’t write one about my father’s death until two months after he was buried and even then it was part of a “Wow, a lot of stuff has happened” entry.

For the most part, anything I have resembling a diary falls under the category of what I call a “confusion journal”. Periodically, usually several months apart, when events and emotions swirl, I’ll sit down and vent with pen and ink and that can usually calm me down and give me some perspective.

One time I realized how boring my complaints were and actually fell asleep whilst writing about them. That’s right, I’m so boring some times I can cure my own insomnia.

 

 

A Deadline is Dead to Me if it’s Not Really Dead

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One of the skills I’ve never been able to fully master is the art of establishing and abiding by artificial, self-imposed deadlines. This was especially true at university when I had research papers to, well, research and, eventually, to write. I’d draw up a nice, relaxing schedule that staggered out my research and writing and even included a couple days to set the project aside so that I might edit and finish it with the clarity of calmness instead of panic.

I typically stuck to the schedule for about a week, maybe less. The devil over my right shoulder was always reminding me that the fake deadlines weren’t real and nothing would actually happen to me if I missed them. The devil over my left shoulder reminded me I still had a lot of time to get things done. “Take your time. Take all the time you need. Play with us, DL. Play with us forever and ever and ever.”

Something like that. I eventually finished all my projects, but before each deadline there was a a bunch of denial and a bunch of dodgy math:

A = read one book + take notes + return to room + translate bad handwriting into English + organize notes + return to library for book you forgot
B = Random computer failure
C = Printer out of ink
D = meals + toilet breaks + random internet surfing
E = actual writing – denial + rationalizing
Finished paper ≈ 3A(B^2+2C)+4D-E/2

I know it looks crazy–and it is and it wasn’t the best for sanity retention–but it got me through university.

By contrast, friends of mine had, and probably still have, the ability to set a fake deadline and behave as if it’s real. They even said no to social activities because they “have to get part ABC of project XYZ done by Thursday”.

Give me an actual deadline, and the shorter the better–XYZ must be finished by Monday or there will be actual consequences–and I’ll have everything done.

Tell me that telling myself that is a great way to get things and I’ll agree with you and might even try it out, but I’ll eventually realize it’s all just a fake deadline.

Part of the purpose of these daily posts is to impose an artificial deadline and stick to that deadline, especially if I have no ideas when I sit down to write.

Like tonight.

Just One Just One More Just One More Little Bit Won’t Hurt

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I’ve mentioned a few times that we (the teachers at the school where I work) recently moved from our old office to a new office in a new building. During the move I jettisoned 14 years of crap that, at the time I started assembling it, seemed like a good thing to have on hand.

One of the odd things I’ve noticed about being in a new office with a shiny new desk is how uncomfortable and sterile the new desk feels without the dangerous overhang of crap–not all of it mine; they had encyclopedias from 1967–that used to occupy the shelves above the old desk. The new desk doesn’t have that “lived in” look.

(No complaints about the new chairs, though. The new chairs are awesome and I’m happy to sleep, er, live, er WORK in them.)

That said, I’ve been doing my best to keep the new desk organized. This is partly because the new shelves actually sit on the desk and steal a lot space and because the desk itself is smaller. A few scattered pieces of paper quickly make the desk look messy.

In the past, as a form of “cleaning” and “decluttering” I would merely fill up the drawers with the crap–the adult equivalent of pushing everything under the bed before mom comes to check on the room–and call the desk clean. Today, however, I actually spent time cleaning the drawers and tossing scrap paper in the recycling bin rather than telling myself I’d eventually reuse it. (I wouldn’t, of course. I’d inevitably acquire new paper before I could use up the old.)

Part of the problem I have is that one of the full time teachers in the office has a desk that’s so messy that when you first see it you’re convinced his bookshelves must have collapsed onto his desk. His desk looks like the kind of thing you see on the occasional Japanese versions of Hoarders. I’ve always been tempted to send a picture in and see if one of the TV shows would send a pair of comedians (the shows always send young, up-and-coming comedians) to clean the desk.

What’s interesting about this teacher’s desk, is his old desk in the old office was just as messy, albeit a bit more precariously balanced. He moved the clutter to the new office. (I kind of wish I’d taken a picture to see if he’s put it all back in the same place, which would likely mean he has a system.

With that as a comparison just across the room, it’s easy to say, “well, at least my desk doesn’t look that bad”. It’s a bit like hanging out with fat people to make yourself look thinner. Then you tell yourself you’re actually thin and think “oh, this one little thing won’t hurt. Nor this one neither. Nor this one.” and pretty soon people are hanging out next to you. Or are sending comedians to clean up your desk.

The Temple of Pens and Paper and Stuff

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I’ve said before that Japan is the Mecca of stationery and things to write with. For part of today, I got the chance to head down to Tokyo to visit Itoya, the central temple of that Mecca. I was mildly disappointed by the trip.

I’ve also mentioned my affinity for places that are both grandiose and kind of creepy.  When I first moved to Tokyo, Itoya met both those criteria. Behind it’s signature red paper clip sign was seven floors (and one basement level) of office supplies fountain pens, ball-point pens, paper, and every office gadget imaginable housed in a thin building that looked kind of worn out and felt vaguely dangerous, as if you’d had to go to a store in the bad part of town (instead of just a block from what used to be the most expensive property on Earth). It had low doors and I had to pay attention as I moved from floor to floor. I was immediately smitten by it all and started spending. If I had nickle for every dime I spent there, well, I’d have someone else writing these posts whilst I studied mathematics.

Part of the fun is that, because the Japanese also have an unhealthy interest in office supplies, Japanese stationers have pens and other items that never make it to the West. Some of the items aren’t worth sending, but the ones that are seem subject to the whims of the manufacturers who may decide that the pen or pencil won’t sell well overseas. When  you house it in a creepy building it’s even better.

Unfortunately, the creepiness is gone as the Itoya main building is now a construction site. The basic pens and paper have been moved to a six story building around the corner that lacks the red paper clip any character.

Clean but lacks character.

Clean but lacks character.

Just down the alley is K. Itoya,which used to be a satellite of the main store, and now houses the fountain pens and art supplies. It also lacks any character, but I like the fountain pen sign.

Nice sign.

Nice sign. No character.

I’m also convinced that the new stores have less stuff than before. Part of the charm of old Itoya was that you could roam around for an hour discovering stuff that you didn’t know existed but suddenly couldn’t live without. The new store is too clean and compact. It’s like replacing the XYZ Shopping Mall with a large convenience store but still calling it the XYZ Shopping Mall.

I hope the new building gets its creepiness and sense of danger back. If it doesn’t, I just hope it has more stuff.

 

Inspiration So Pure So Smooth So Precious

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One of the things ordinary, normal people don’t get about writers is our affinity for notebooks. Not the digital carry it with you and send email kind, but the kind made from wood pulp.

To a normal person, a notebook is a thing used to record things, like notes. For a writer, a notebook is inspiration. It is precious and has magic powers. Like the new running shoes in Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Summer Running”–which the narrator is convinced will make him run faster–a notebook contains the purest form of all writing: the things we hope to write before we actually sit down to write them. There are no awkward sentences, no under-developed characters, no plot holes. Everything is perfect–well, at least until the first marks are made on the page.

To understand the effects of this, you have to understand how normal people and writers buy notebooks and then what happens after. A normal person buying a notebook will pay the money, say something like “Thanks, I really needed one of these” and immediately start scribbling notes. A writer buying a notebook will suddenly grow twenty feet tall like Galadriel in the film version of The Fellowship of the Ring and announce “Within these mighty pages are a great novel/epic poem and all that is necessary for me to reveal it is for me to leave white the things that are not a great novel/epic poem and lay marks upon the things that are. All shall love me and despair!”

The normal person behind me then says “Hurry up, moron, some of us have places to be. Oh, and you know Galadriel was a chick, don’t you?”

Basking in the glow, we get our brand new notebooks back to our writing space. There’s then a few moments whilst we arrange the space properly and then break out our pen. That’s when the problems hit. The shinier, more perfect the notebook, the less likely we are to begin writing in it. The ultra-smooth, fountain pen friendly paper of our Apica Premium CD Notebook is too smooth and pure to be ruined by the horrible scrawls we are about to inflict on it. It is the paper for something that people will be studying 300 years from now. It is not for the notes of a crap action novel or the notes for some pathetic blog. It deserves better. Hell, I don’t even have a proper pen for it.

It is precious.

In my case, at this point my internal editor/heckler–her name is Kimberly–starts snickering. (I’ll tell you more about Kimberly in a future post; all you need to know now is that she’s a snarky, ruthless bitch.) She hears the opening line that’s been rolling around in my head and says “Didn’t that meth lord guy say that on Breaking Bad in like season one or was that like Macbeth? It doesn’t matter, it still stinks. You’re not the one who knocks, you’re the one who stinks. And you can’t even smell. (See, I told you what she was like.)

I therefore put the nice, shiny notebook away and drag out some handmade ones that I assembled several years back out of unused handouts and old student evaluations. Kimberly messes with her hair–her hair is always perfect but she always complains she can’t do anything with it–and says “Changing to crappy paper won’t help. It’s just crap on crap. Stinky, stinky, stinky.” She sighs. “And how much time did you waste  making those nasty things when you could have been writing? How many blank notebooks do you have anyway?” My answer to that question is “shut up”. All she needs to know is I now have a moldering stack of old paper held together with rusting staples.

As I’ve been working on this blog I’ve discovered that one of the advantages of computer screens is that there’s nothing particularly tactile about writing on them. You never have that “my words are crap and will despoil these precious pages” moment. (Well, unless you own a Mac, in which case, yes you will.)

Kimberly just laughs at that. “I’ll be here whatever you choose, you loser. I’m precious that way.”

 

The Glorious Scribbly Scrawls of Madness

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I spent part of the day transcribing novel number two into a computer.

Because I am a lunatic, and an old-fashioned one at that, I tend to write the first drafts of books by hand. This is actually quite convenient as I find it easier to break out a notepad and write on it, even whilst riding on a train, than to drag out a laptop computer and try to position it correctly on my lap. Also, notepads don’t have pre-installed games.

The disadvantage is I also have to have a fairly accurate “book bible” that keeps track of all my settings and my characters and their backgrounds. If I don’t, I end up wasting a lot of time, ink and paper. This happened on book two when I realized I’d spent thousands of words writing about a character’s family and getting his background wrong.

After I declare the manuscript finished, I hide it away for a couple months and then attack it with fresh eyes. I cross things out; cut things out; and tape and glue things in a different order. I call this the “assembled draft”. I then attempt to enter it all in computer, usually making even more changes as I go.

This step, however, is hindered by my handwriting. At a slow speed, my handwriting’s sloppy but legible. Then I begin to speed up. As the ideas and words begin to flow my handwriting becomes semi-legible scrawl bordering on sheer madness. Even I can’t read it and have showed it to other people for their opinion on what word they thought a particular scribble might be. They often scream at this point and flee whilst crossing themselves and saying Sancta Maria mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae but that may be for other reasons than my handwriting.

For an example I offer the following for your consideration. It shows the various steps my handwriting goes through:

Gaze upon the madness.

Gaze upon this at your own risk. (And this is only average madness.)

Gaze upon this at your own risk. (And this is only average madness.)

For the record, the Madness was not an exaggeration. I just quickly wrote the first thing that popped into my head. (And, no, I didn’t think of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” until just now.)

Now imagine trying to work your way through 600 pages of such Madness.

I’ve tried slowing down, but can’t seem to manage it. I’ve also been, on occasion, doing some handwriting improvement exercises, but again, I have to be going slowly for that to work. Also, the last few months, I’ve been doing my best to work on computers but that requires fully charged batteries and no internet connection of any kind. These daily postings are also supposed to help me develop the habit of thinking on the keyboard (something you’ll notice I haven’t managed to do yet in these postings).

I’m not a luddite. I love having a computer for editing and research, for photography and for just good old fashioned time wasting. Still, there’s nothing like that scratching of fountain pen on paper. (Yes, pen snobs, that means I need a smoother nib or better paper. I know.) And seeing the word count on the screen isn’t as satisfying as seeing a stack of paper grow larger as you work.

You actually feel as if you’ve accomplished something. Even if you can’t read it.