On Making Bad Art (and a Lot of It)

But maybe bad art is more fun than eating vegetables — partially because you can hold it, and especially because it’s just for you. I write down my friend’s dream featuring me playing basketball. I write down what my sister wore to her sorority date night. I write down what the soup was at Zeus and where I ate it. My journal is an explosion of the mundane, sprinkled with heartbreak and days when the sun shined bright enough to lull away the sonorous pitch of outgrowing things and places again and again. 

ROSENBAND | Keep a Journal

In the corner of my childhood bedroom sits a stack of journals about as tall as my waist. Black marble notebook on top of black marble notebook, mixed with the occasional moleskin or legal pad, in that dusty nook exists an exhausting, and haunting, log of my day-to-day existence since I was 14 years old. Some days were just lists, others were angry tirades, and sometimes they were tickets of gratitude. Now, in my Collegetown apartment, my stack keeps growing, it just looks a little different this time. Black marble notebook on top of an overpriced textbook, on top of a black marble notebook. 

I’m not overselling it when I tell you that keeping a journal is one of the greatest gifts you can give to yourself.

AHMAD | Ambition Kills Passion

I peaked when I was 10 years old. I know that sounds ridiculous. And whenever I mention it out loud to someone — my friends, parents, professors — they roll their eyes and laugh it off. To be quite honest, I don’t blame them. How many times have we heard this clichéd story before?