Toward the end of August, an idea dawned on me that I wish had dawned on me sooner, since it (in retrospect) seems so obviously beneficial, munificent, edifying, etc. Toward the end of August, I bought a wordbook at the bookstore.
It’s a small article, Moleskine, with a purple somewhere in the region of lavender or heliotrope (I haven’t decided which yet). And, in my readings and ramblings, I’ve been using it to keep track of words I hitherto didn’t know, jotted down upon first encounter.
It may seem quaint, my little purple notebook, but mark me: It was a stunning revelation. And as the words have continued to pile up, over the past two weeks, it has become (probably) the smartest purchase I have ever made, on par with the first time I bought lunch at the Mediterranean Cafe on State Street and “The Eighth Day” by Thornton Wilder.
Yes, extremely quaint to an outsider, but of great personal significance to me and, as it will be shown, of great practical value to anyone interested.
So what does this have to do with literature? Why, it arose directly out of it. As someone whose job in college is to read books and say things about them, and as someone whose free time is spent reading books, words tend to take on a great deal more import. This is, of course, not to begrudge anyone who doesn’t like reading for fun (I’ll deal with you in a minute).
Whichever way you think about language (semantically, aesthetically, practically, narrowly, etc.) and whichever way you use it, you will inevitably run into words you don’t know. Unless you’re some savant, freak, utopian or any combination of those three.
So what should you do if you encounter a word you can’t immediately define or understand? Skim past it and pray you see it again? Dismiss it as high falutin? Or, do what I’ve been doing and write it down in a portable place for future record?
I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I already feel smarter in the time that I’ve been keeping this journal. As someone who assembles words on a daily basis in a number of capacities, it’s wonderful to have a small toolbox at my disposal, just waiting for the cue to deploy a gem like “refulgence” or “attrition” or “snollygoster.”
Plus, there’s a certain fantasia in keeping a purple notebook, in lieu of a black one or any other plain color. Purple flushes with a certain zeal, and, unhinged, brimming with text, reveals scores of filigree lions and calligraphic cranes pullulating across the pages…
That may just be me, which is why I now have to make the case for anyone who isn’t an irredeemable basket case like me.
If you are interested in writing, I think you should keep a notebook like this, if you aren’t already. Call it Labor Eight or Labor Blue on your list of feats to surmount. Even if you don’t end up incorporating any of your pilfered words into your lexicon, it will still prove handy in your writerly travails.
On the other hand, if you don’t write regularly (which isn’t saying much to a college student) there are benefits to keeping a notebook of this character. Jotting down random words may cement their meaning and usage in your mind, which in turn will cultivate a stronger sense of language. If it’s essential (and I’m beginning to think it is) to any writer, burgeoning or otherwise, then, in an ancillary sense, it’s useful to any person, burgeoning or otherwise.
Or, should you find no interesting words in your travels, turn it into a grocery checklist, or doodle catalogue, or, I don’t know, a checklist of gray squirrels you’ve seen. But whatever you do, make time for a little notebook of some sort.
Want to make note of what you thought of this article? Tell Sean at sreichard@wisc.edu.
