Ahh, so THIS is art!

As I get closer to my new book’s release, I’ve been thinking about how I wrote it—by gathering up bits and pieces of totally unrelated information. The young man who passed his work off as Shakespeare’s. The image from a Gothic Literature tarot card. Emily Brontë’s ghost (and that of her dog, Keeper) roaming the moors. The smell of lemons. A Victorian woman’s refusal to follow the restrictive rules society made for her. Wuthering Heights. My fascination for secret staircases in old British mansions. Emily Brontë’s cramped handwriting. Weaving all these wacky things together is what gets me up in the morning. (That, and two full dog bladders and two empty dog stomachs.)

My current art interest is making ‘junk journals.’ But I don’t make the kind you see on YouTube, all lovely with lace and clever little bits and bobs, but without any place to actually add yourself. What’s the point of a journal if all you can do is look at it? Although, I must say, many of them are beautiful:

I like to make junk journals with places to write in, to record thoughts, quotes, ideas, etc.

To do this, I collect bits of paper—the envelope from a piece of junk mail, an old map, a sticker someone sent me with a new tarot deck, a page of piano music, etc. One large solicitation envelope contained the words HELP in big red letters. That’s going in a journal. Or the graphic of a dog sleeping on a sofa…I’ll find a place for that.

I was thinking all of this yesterday and suddenly saw the similarities between writing and junk journaling. (You probably got there much faster than I did.) When writing, I gather together bits and pieces of unrelated facts, stories, ideas, etc. When making a junk journal, I gather together bits and pieces of unrelated words, paper, images, etc.

Huh.

Perhaps this is my definition of art: weaving together bits and pieces of unrelated material into something I like and think is beautiful.

Yes. I have now defined art. You’re welcome.