I’ve been trying to tidy up my office, get everything arranged into its proper place or a proper place (after all the stuff that doesn’t belong has been removed, then we’ll find proper places). I hit the motherlode of my paper journals and arranged them on a shelf:

Now, to be truthful, the last 6 or 7 books on the shelf are blank—in unpacking these boxes I have come to terms with my rather extreme case of notebookmania (anybody got a Latin term for that?)—but holy God I’ve written a lot of pages since 1986, which is when that spiral notebook to the far left is from.

I reread some of it last night. I haven’t reread my journals much over the years, mostly out of fear that I’m going to find out I was complaining about the same stuff in 1990 that I am now. But I was actually far more entertained by them than I thought I’d be.

I need to rearrange some more stuff in my office though, because right now these books are one shelf off the ground, which means they are in easy access for Simon, who’s been enjoying ripping books, and Sophia, who’s always looking for paper to draw on. I’m going to put them on a high shelf so when they’re older they can hunt for them like sneaky children should.