I've been creating more paper goods lately. Book pages and glue, plus cardstock and stamps, have made up my down time since the days have been getting shorter. Working with paper is a consistent, meticulous process that is comforting in its repetition and movement: a fold here, a straightening of edges there, a precise cut with scissors--or else the edges won't line up (blasphemy). From palm to fingers, my hands turn black-gray from dried glue, neck tenses and shoulders ache from hunching over; tips and sides of fingers are sensitive from using scissors and tiny wood-mounted stamps. It's tiring but genuinely worthwhile work.
There's something exhilarating about smoothing the corners of paper--and slowly running one's fingers across its subtle grain--that calms the soul. Of pressing rubber stamps to paper and hearing, ever so softly, the edges meet and then separate, leaving a strategic mark in its place. When making book page goods, I often catch myself reading the upcycled pages instead of creating something
from them. I read on, shifting my attention to a plot that I am obviously not following (the upcycled book pages are never in numerical order). This is especially fun since I catch only glimpses of character development and plot; so to compensate, I make up the rest of the story in my head. The result is always messy, with a strange turn of events and a quirky ending--and never does the novel justice--but it is still a fun process.
Maybe it's the meditative, tactile nature of making paper goods that catches me: wily imagination and all.
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for featuring my bookish work...
