In which we grow a collection of blank books that we occasionally write stuff in.
Fortunately, we've both got that artist-thing going for us, so often times the blank journals become sketchbooks. This is in addition to the regular, conventional sketchbooks we use for work.
We enjoy the concept of journals, for sure. We just don't use them as such very often. Some of them have purposes though, even if incomplete. They contain thoughts, facts we want to remember, ramblings on spiritual and religious considerations, outlines for books, herbal recipes and remedies, etc. Some are turned into types of scrapbooks.
Sadly, many of them are left blank, out of paranoid fear of ruining the purity and potential of the book by writing something stupid in it. Because that's how we roll.
We've even been known to rip pages out if it's later decided that the "purpose" for the journal has changed and the former writings would somehow disrupt the flow of the new concept. This makes sense to us when it's happening. Writing about it after the fact highlights the absurdity. Obviously we have some sort of psychological issue relating to journals.
Maybe if I could type in them, I'd be more inclined to use them. Or perhaps I should get my laptop a rich leather cover to bring out the romance of journal keeping.