For the Love of Lived-In Notebooks

Trends seem to run toward minimalism, in all facets of life. Soft, all-white decor, with bright sunlight streaming through a window, or sleek black-and-metal furniture with tasteful art on dark walls. I’m as much of a sucker for a good Instagram interior as anyone else. But the minimalist lifestyle is not for me.

A few years ago, not long after I’d moved into my apartment, a friend (hi, Alyssa!) came over and was looking at the assorted nonsense I have on my walls and shelves. “It’s like a museum!” she said, and that has always stuck with me. It is a museum, a museum of my life, my interests, the things that bring me joy just by existing.

I moved home after college and spent the four following years living in my childhood bedroom——complete with banana-yellow walls——collecting stuff. I could never resist a 4-for-$20 poster sale at a con, or an indie artist’s take on my favorite characters. I bought comics and books wherever I went; I hated clothing shopping, yet somehow always managed to find things I just had to order online and keep even when it didn’t fit quite right. I bought souvenirs for myself and tucked them into drawers, or sometimes brought them to work, to add a little personal flair to my desk.

My life was crammed with stuff, and it had nowhere to go. So, yes, when I moved it, that stuff-bomb went off. Almost every poster covered every spare inch of wall space. I bought new shelves to hold the mugs, the wine bottles, the figurines, the books, the candles, the plants, the comics, the trinkets. I put my collection on display and decided it was all permanent. Anything that was out would stay out. If I bought a new piece of art, I’d just have to shuffle some things around to make sure it all fit. I didn’t want to have to tuck any of it away every again.

So while I lust after the wide, open, empty spaces of Instagram, I know I cannot have them. I wouldn’t be happy staring at a blank wall or a sheer white curtain. I want patterns; I want it to be loud. I want my stuff around me, like Rose traveling with all her family photos at the start of Titanic.

I have to say that I identify as a maximalist, the utter opposite of minimalism. I’m sure there’s a technical definition for maximalism, in interior design or fashion, but the way I define it is simply putting yourself on display in the form of the stuff and nonsense that makes up your life. Hang a new picture, buy a new album, plant some new flowers. Let it grow up around you; let it fill your life with color. I like some order——tastefully stacked bookshelves, neat configurations of frames on walls——but nothing is too low-brow for me. I have vague color palettes, but I’ll never turn something away just because it doesn’t match.

I think maybe I’m a maximalist in terms of design because I’m an introvert as a person. I have a small, close group of friends. I don’t always have plans. I like to see and do, but I don’t always need to be seeing and doing. I like my quiet. I find the noise in my library of books and my collection of beer steins from Oktoberfests past.

The maximalism extends to my journaling habits. I like to tape in tickets and receipts and bag tags, adding to the memories I’ve already written down. I like covering the pages of my planner in colors, coding the books I work on and the notes I take. It helps me keep track of things, but it also turns a quiet Moleskin page into a riot.

The only thing I love more than buying a new notebook is finishing one. I love a lived-in notebook. I make neat lists for work on Sunday nights that immediately become overgrown and alive by Tuesday afternoon, filled with chicken-scratch corrections and cross-outs and highlights. When I bought my current planner, because I decided I wanted to go back to keeping physical lists for work and writing down my notes by hand so I don’t forget anything, I was thrilled to see that it came with stickers. And then I bought more stickers.

I love my handwriting, especially when I write notes with a nice Pilot very-fine-point pen in black ink. I love it even more when I can mark things important with a big green check mark sticker and highlight in orange my Thursday tasks-to-complete. I want notebook covers to be bent and battered, carried in my purse or a tote bag between the desk in my bedroom and my favorite cafe. I want pages dog-eared for easy reference or accidentally bent from being tossed in a drawer. Ink should bleed through the pages, already coloring the week to come. Pages should be filled, overrun with the stuff of my life: appointments, how-to notes, vacations, happy hours, to-do lists.

I want absolutely everything filled to the brim. A well-loved notebook. A plain, rental-apartment-beige wall. An IKEA bookshelf. I buy the ridiculous lattes and try the weirdest sandwiches. This maximalism is how I express all the things running around my mind and heart when I can’t find the words to speak to convey them.

I want my life to be filled. So I fill it.