Scrapbooking Journaling Quotes

Become a documentarian of what you do. Start a work journal: Write your thoughts down in a notebook, or speak them into an audio recorder. Keep a scrapbook. Take a lot of photographs of your work at different stages in your process. Shoot video of you working. This isn’t about making art, it’s about simply keeping track of what’s going on around you. Take advantage of all the cheap, easy tools at your disposal—these days, most of us carry a fully functional multimedia studio around in our smartphones.

Don’t you wish somebody came up to you today and gave you a scrapbook called ‘The Life of Leo Borlock’? And it’s a record, like a journal, of what you did on such-and-such a date when you were little. From the days you can’t remember anymore. And there’s pictures, and even stuff that you dropped or threw away, like a candy wrapper. And it was all done by some neighbor across the street, and you didn’t even know she was doing it. Don’t you think when you’re fifty or sixty you’d give a fortune to have such a thing?

Could you ever love me the way you love them?' Confusion settles on his face. 'Who is them?' I clutch my scrapbook journal tight. 'All the girls you're always talking to.' 'You're my best friend,' he says. 'I know you like ... love me. But ... like....?' His eyes widen––a mix of surprise and I don't know... 'oh,' is all he can manage. 'Never mind. Forget I said anything.' 'That's not something you can just forget, Lana.' 'It's cool ... it's fine.' I turn away from him. He grabs my hand. 'Stop––' His voice gets serious. There's no leftover laughter. 'I don't want to play this game anymore.' I'm biting back tears, ready to run out of here. He pulls me closer. ' You don't get to say something like that and run off.

i didn’t know it for most of my growing up… but my mama had dreams. dreams that weren’t of ring shapes and dress colors. she had dreams that were drenched in art and tasted like adventure… ones that felt like being kissed until her heart burst… ones that opened up her whole soul like a wildflower on fire. but i didn’t know it. i didn’t know it because she tucked them away in pretty memory boxes and hid them in tattered journals that she pushed aside for perfectly-scripted scrapbooks, and she buried all her burning desires under yes ma’ams and sunday dresses and sweet, supportive smiles, while any part of her that ever maybe might could’ve known that she mattered… by herself, for herself, and belonging. to. herself. suffocated quietly under the white noise of all those voices that had told her that all that really mattered was that she had been chosen… by him. and when i started to see that inside of her was a whole other woman that she ached to be… i knew i couldn’t go through my life aching for the me i’d never be, in that same way. so all i’ve ever wanted… is to know that i matter. by myself. for myself. and belonging to myself. chosen by no one, but me.

A phrase Max had used bothered me. I was not to be surprised if my work underwent a change. I might find it becoming more creative. What the hell had Max meant by that? What was wrong with my work as it was? Fiddling journalism; nothing sustained about it; conventional, facile, all on the sound old traditional lines? No doubt that was how he saw it: did he suppose I had not seen that too? Why else had I undertaken the book? And what was the book, anyway, but a compilation, a re-hash of old newspaper articles better forgotten – no more ‘creative’ than Pamela’s scrap-books. And even that I hadn’t the capacity to finish. It would never be finished. I saw that now. It would not be finished because I had nothing to say. What I had mistaken for talent had been no more than the afflatus which makes every second swelled-headed adolescent suppose he has a vocation to write. It was a folly which had made me turn my back on the chance of a solid profession, got me as far as a sub-editor’s desk on a London weekly, and led me to walk out from that into the blue. I had imagined that I had something to say, and behold, without the drive of a play to report on, a book to review, or a controversy to join in, I was empty: I dredged into my own mind and found nothing there. My youthful energy was already exhausted. I was finished: finished at thirty. And Max had seen that. I

Why not Vespera?” Sophie asked. “Because I’m inclined to believe there’s more subtlety to her—and her research—than her journals imply. She’s an Empath, after all. And Empaths feel every hurt they trigger.” “Not all of them,” Keefe muttered, and Sophie’s heart ached, knowing he had to mean his dad. “How do you know she’s an Empath?” Sophie asked. “I just do. It’s actually why I chose Keefe’s father from my match lists. I knew if I wanted to build my own Nightfall someday, I was going to need an Empath to help me run it. But he turned out to be… incompatible. Fortunately, he gave me a son who manifested with far more power than he ever had. That’s your legacy, Keefe. But we’ll talk more about that later. For now, go get me my Archetype. And try not to die.” The Imparter went silent, and Sophie and Keefe just stared at it. Eventually Keefe mumbled, “So… all of that’s getting shoved into a really dark corner of my head—and we’re not going to talk about it, okay? At least not until we get through tonight.” Sophie nodded. “Well… at least we know Vespera’s ability isn’t something scary.” “Don’t be so sure. My mom’s never trained as an Empath, so she doesn’t get it.” He stood, moving to Sophie’s bookshelf, where she’d displayed the paintings he’d given her around her old human scrapbook. “My empathy Mentor warned me when she saw how strong my ability was—that there’s a risk that comes with feeling too much and not having the right training. Our mind’s natural reaction is to shut down when things get too intense—but everything is intense for an Empath. So if you’re not careful, you can end up going… numb. You’ll still feel what others feel. But you won’t feel

Burke lived in a shack in the desert outside Las Vegas, about four hundred square feet all told. He kept a trunk under his bed and this is the key to that trunk. Two dear friends who are with the SFPD were with me when we unlocked the trunk, but I was not prepared for what we found. “Burke had been documenting his kills from his first, over thirty years before. He’d filled several scrapbooks with souvenirs and photos. He had drawn maps to where he’d hidden his victims’ remains. And along with the scrapbooks, he had a dozen journals detailing his kills. Often he described the women he was about to kill, what they said, how they died, and bits of poetry along with his victims’ last words.” Cindy paused, put her hand on the book and looked out at the silent audience. Many in the group looked frightened, as if Evan Burke might just stand up and replace her at the microphone. She said, “Evan Burke will die in prison. His career as a killer is over. But, along with his trophies and voluminous notes, Evan Burke gave me, gave all of us, a priceless gift. “Ninety-five percent of Burke’s victims didn’t know him, received no warning, and didn’t survive their first encounter. His gift is one our parents gave us as children and is reiterated, no, proven in this book. “It’s simply this: Beware of strangers. “Take that to heart. It comes from one of the most successful serial killers in America.

Become a documentarian of what you do. Start a work journal: Write your thoughts down in a notebook, or speak them into an audio recorder. Keep a scrapbook. Take a lot of photographs of your work at different stages in your process. Shoot video of you working. This isn’t about making art, it’s about simply keeping track of what’s going on around you. Take advantage of all the cheap, easy tools at your disposal—these days, most of us carry a fully functional multimedia studio around in our smartphones

Become a documentarian of what you do. Start a work journal: Write your thoughts down in a notebook, or speak them into an audio recorder. Keep a scrapbook. Take a lot of photographs of your work at different stages in your process. Shoot video of you working... Whether you share it or not, documenting and recording your process as you go along has its own rewards: You’ll start to see the work you’re doing more clearly and feel like you’re making progress. And when you’re ready to share, you’ll have a surplus of material to choose from.