My scungy purple notebook

This blog is about my scungy purple notebook (pictured). Every word of that descriptive phrase is significant except for the word “purple”, which is really of no consequence. After all, the notebook could just as well be algae-coloured or tartan. It would make no difference.

Let me begin with the word “notebook”. It sounds innocent enough. But behind the mundane object named by that noun is quite a lot of my writing philosophy. You see, I’m a writer who gets a lot of odd ideas at odd times. If I don’t write them down (or sketch them, if they happen to be pictorial) I lose them. For ever. Thus this notebook is simply the latest in a long series of notebooks that I have used over the years. It is an extension of my mind. In it I jot down, well, whatever I think is worth jotting down, or putting into words, on a particular day: lines of poetry, plans, the beginnings of stories, journal entries, sketches, even blogs like this one. In fact, this particular blog was jotted down in this very notebook. The only reason you’re reading it now in typed form is because I then typed it up (editing it only slightly). But it was formed in this notebook.

There are also poems that have been birthed in this particular notebook, and the lyrics of a new song, plus a complete short story (that I’m not yet sure quite works), and ideas for blogs and social media posts, even the first halting paragraphs of a book idea. I’m sure I could use an electronic device for this sort of “noting” and “drafting” (lots of writers do), but for the moment I’m still doing what I’ve done (on and off), for years, carrying round the latest in a long series of notebooks.

Which brings me to my second point. It’s scungy. “Scungy” is a word that barely makes it into the dictionaries, since it’s an Australian and New Zealand colloquialism. It means decrepit, messed up, dirty, nasty. The pages of this notebook are starting to detach from the bottom third of the spiral binding. The cheap plastic cover is warped out of shape (that’s why it’s of no consequence that it’s purple, or any other colour). The page edges are getting a little frayed from constant thumbing. And that’s just the externals. Inside, the writing is rushed, barely legible, with multiple crossings-out and tiny scrawled-in additions. Even my family members say, “How can you even read that?” But I can. I can read it pretty easily, as if it’s an extension of my recent journey through life, which it is.

I suppose I should tell you one of the most significant points about its scunginess (and, hey, there’s a word that definitely doesn’t make it into normal dictionaries). Its scunginess is because I keep stuffing it into my backpack, taking it almost everywhere I go. It’s worn out because I’m travelling with it. But that’s the whole point. It means I’m “catching my thoughts” and “drafting new words” at all sorts of odd times in my life. Its scunginess is what makes it so organic, so connected with my journey through the real world.

Which brings me to my third and final point, the “my” in “my scungy purple notebook”. The “my” is what causes me not to care a fig about how scungy it’s getting. There’s so much of “me” now in that book that I’m connected to it by much more than its mere physical form and feel. There are words and sentences and whole written pieces in this notebook that are a key part of my creative journey over recent times.

If you are a fellow writer, then, as one of your kin, I can offer you few more heartfelt wishes than this: that you too will have your own “scungy purple notebook”—or whatever equivalent works best for you.

Happy writing.


© Peter Friend, 2019. All rights reserved.