From the Journal: On Materials, Mistakes, and What Actually Works

When I first started making journals, I chased materials the same way most makers do. I looked for what was beautiful. What felt luxurious. What looked impressive sitting on a workbench or photographed under soft light.

Some of it was genuinely incredible leather. My wife even picked out a piece of soft, high-quality chrome tan for her journal, inspired by the Louis Carman style. It was smooth, flexible, elegant, and honestly… stunning.

But something about it never felt right to me.

It was almost too nice. Too delicate. Every time I handled it, I caught myself worrying about scratching it or staining it. I found myself wanting to protect it instead of carry it. Instead of becoming something personal, it felt like something that needed to stay pristine.

That was the opposite of what I wanted.

I wasn’t trying to make something that stayed beautiful sitting on a shelf. I wanted something that felt like it belonged in daily life. Something closer to a wallet that lives in your pocket every day, or a pair of leather work gloves that slowly become part of you.

Years ago, when I drove trucks, I had a pair of leather gloves I used every time I fueled. At first they were stiff and awkward. Over time they softened, shaped themselves to my hands, and eventually felt like I wasn’t wearing gloves at all. They carried the marks of every mile and every stop, but they worked better because of it.

That is the feeling I kept chasing when choosing leather for the Traveler’s Rite.

I wanted leather that felt strong and capable. Something with presence. Something that could take wear without asking permission first. Leather that gains character instead of losing value when it gets scratched, folded, or broken in.

That philosophy carried over into the paper as well.

I tried more paper than I expected to. Heavy paper. Thin paper. Bright white paper. Cotton blends. Multimedia stock. Some of it was excellent, but a lot of it either felt too fragile or too precious.

I kept coming back to Southworth Ivory Parchment in 32lb weight. It sits in that middle ground that feels right to me. It holds ink well, it has enough body to feel intentional without becoming bulky, and it carries a warmth that feels more natural than stark white pages.

I still occasionally build journals using Canson multimedia paper. There is a place for it, especially when someone wants to sketch or mix mediums. But personally, I keep returning to parchment-style paper. It feels consistent with how I use a journal — writing, sketching, recording ideas, and letting pages fill organically.

The insert covers followed the same thinking. I use heavy cardstock, sometimes white, sometimes black, sometimes decorative, but always sturdy enough to stand on its own. I never liked the idea of inserts feeling disposable or fragile. I also like knowing that once an insert is full, it can be removed, stored, or archived without feeling like it’s falling apart.

Then there is the binding.

I use linen thread. Not because it is trendy or traditional, but because I genuinely enjoy sewing. Glue has never been something I trust or enjoy working with. Sewing pages together feels deliberate. It feels connected to the rhythm of the work. It is one of the quiet parts of making that reminds me why I started in the first place.

All of these choices come from trial, error, and preference, not perfection.

I am not against experimenting with other materials. I am already interested in exploring dotted and lined paper options. I have also thought about small, limited runs using luxury materials or specialty paper. Those things have their place, and I enjoy exploring them as part of the craft.

But the Traveler’s Rite has to stay grounded in something simpler.

It has to work.

It has to hold up.

It has to support analog writing and slow thinking.

It should be something you are never afraid to carry. Something that can live in a back pocket, a purse, a truck console, or a workbench drawer without feeling out of place. Something that improves with time, not despite it.

The goal has never been to make something perfect.

The goal has always been to make something worth using.