Fingers sticky with purple glue, I carefully paste a wrinkled receipt onto the bottom left corner of a page in my journal. County fair scraps, used post-its, SAT registration print-outs, and stickers are littered around it, creating a bright, cacophonic blend of designs. For a year now, I’ve filled my nights with junk journaling, collecting scraps throughout the day to make colorful spreads.
Junk journaling started as a way for me to decompress. Though I had frequented art studios as a child, I had quickly lost my interest in traditional art forms, intimidated by slow-drying oils and canvas. It simply wasn’t fun anymore. Craving the relaxation of painting a canvas but fearing the creations of my untrained hands, I turned to the journal as an accessible outlet to express my creativity. As I’ve continued filling my pages with so-called “junk,” I’ve realized that my exercises in creativity actually extend beyond when I’m hunched over my desk, meticulously gluing shopping tags together to form what is reminiscent of a laundry line.
Junk journaling has helped me to approach my mundane encounters with a creative eye. Through it, I’ve learned to reframe how I perceive my life: rather than being one of endless repetition, each day has unique scraps of color to offer.
I am easily susceptible to boredom. Often complaining about math problems or completion-based homework, I used to find it easier to tune out these moments, pruning the memories of my day down to only notable occurrences. On most days, I found nothing worth remembering. When I began to junk journal, however, my patterns slowly began to shift. After all, I needed to seek out junk to have a junk journal.
As I searched for junk that represented my day’s experiences, I found myself pausing and reveling in the mundane. My Vons receipt after buying cookies off the discount rack would have been thoughtlessly tossed into the trash can, but I instead kept it, wrinkled and ripped, in my pocket. Unfurling it that night, I suddenly recalled the unabashed triumph as I found a fresh box of cookies marked down for discount, the stifled laughter as my friends and I made jokes while waiting our turn to check out, the sharp whir of the machine as it printed out evidence of my purchase. So many little moments I had been unknowingly losing to the wind were encapsulated within that small receipt.
My desire to collect more junk became a way for me to collect more memories. I was eager to scoop up photobooth strips, clothing tags, and even water bottle labels because of what they were attached to: memories.
I’ve learned that nothing is truly mundane. At home, as I analyze the treasures I collect throughout the day, I always make it a point to look through what I’ve designated as my “junk drawer.” Recently, I found a reading quiz from my AP World class last year, the red pen from peer-grading overpowering my own handwriting. In the white space, I had drawn four cartoon vegetables holding hands, a representation of the table I sat with for an entire semester.
Through junk journaling, I learned to be able to reframe my daily encounters. The reading quiz I used to dread now is part of a larger journal spread, and looking at the little scribbles brings me immense joy. Now, I look forward to collecting new experiences. A pop quiz or grocery store run isn’t just a chore anymore; it’s an opportunity to collect scraps of memories.
As I continue to junk journal, collaging old junk and my daily winnings with purple glue, I’ll tie together what I once saw as mundane into colorful artworks. The authenticity of the junk journaling process, so different from the traditional art I used to do, has helped me reframe my world. When I pull my sticky fingers apart, I realize the entire world is between them. And I’m excited to continue to look.
