All women really want is to amass more notebooks endlessly. Or, at least, this is what you’d think after scrolling through my Instagram Explore page. My feed is full of well-groomed young women showing off their so-called “journaling ecosystems”; in detailed videos they heft a stack of six different notebooks into the camera’s view, explaining the designated purpose of each. The most common iterations I’ve seen are the daily journal to record inner thoughts, a reading and media consumption journal, a planner, and scrapbooking or junk journals.
Though I’m skeptical of yet another consumerist trend poorly concealed as an opportunity for a personal rebrand, my algorithm also clearly demonstrates that there is a certain appeal to the idea of recording your life in painstaking detail. During an era in which we can post every moment online and our records are stored on the cloud, the significance of our lives is diluted. Certainly, cracking open a pristine leather-bound notebook to write about the novel you’re reading feels more special than the quick-and-dirty of opening Goodreads on your phone. However, I question how effective journaling is as an alternative to these tracking apps, which can often be less than helpful, anyway.
Apps like Goodreads and StoryGraph, which allow you to log your reading habits and interact with an online reading community, are not necessarily conducive to a healthy mindset surrounding such an innocuous hobby. They can be sources of social comparison and stress if you fail to reach your set goals. Journaling, then, presents an alternate solution: indulge this enduring human desire to track what you consume, and remove yourself from the potentially toxic influences of an online network in the process.
Ironically, the influencers who promote their extensive journaling ecosystems feed more directly into social comparison than an avid reader innocently logging 60 books a year on Goodreads. This hobby doesn’t come without a price tag; one popular Parisian brand, Louise Carmen, sells customizable (and thus, Instagram-worthy) leather-bound notebooks that retail for up to $450 depending on your order. It’s hard to believe that deleting apps and buying luxury French stationery is really a healthier alternative to logging your media consumption online.
I imagine the journalist’s journey starts on Jan. 1; 2026 will be the year they “get their life together.” Inspired by the beautiful, notebook-laden women they see online, they purchase various empty journals and plan out which one will serve which creative purpose. The new year commences, and they begin to read their first book of 2026. At first, they feel more motivated than ever to read because of the novelty associated with their pristine journaling ecosystem. Writing about what they’re reading encourages deeper critical thinking and better memory. Soon enough, though, the association of the journal becomes cumbersome. There is no more reading a spontaneous chapter on the train or while waiting before a meeting. Even for prolonged reading sessions, they feel the lingering pressure to scour for profound observations worthy of recording rather than simply reading for pleasure. If you read 100 pages but have nothing to write about them, were they worth reading at all?
I’ve been accumulating empty stationery since I was able to hold a pencil. I never wanted to mess up my coloring books, sketchbooks and new diaries, so I opted for the shame of avoiding the blank pages instead. I’ve found that it is the cheapest paper I can get my hands on that I am most likely to use; my utilitarian Muji sketchbook and diary have weathered water spills and ink stains, but it’s OK because they lack elitist French branding that makes them valuable beyond their content.
Beyond run-of-the-mill self-improvement trends, the push for journaling is contextualized by a larger movement favoring analog hobbies. More than ever before, I’ve seen an (ironically, online) discussion of reducing screen time and embracing physical media. There is a certain paradox, however, in the relentless documentation of one’s analog living with digital devices so that it may be fed to online audiences. When created for social media, even beneficial practices are flattened into content. By contrast, reading-and-not-posting-about-it is not expensive, overly difficult nor digital. It is an authentically analog practice with no caveats. Perhaps the best way to disconnect your literary life from the clutches of the online world, then, is simply to relinquish tracking as a whole, and finally read in peace.
Daily Arts Writer Sofia Thornley can be reached at tsofia@umich.edu.
