I have a confession to make: I go through sketchbooks quickly—not because I triumphantly fill every page, but because I quietly abandon them.
One stray line, one color that bleeds wrong, or a vision that doesn’t translate well to the page… and suddenly, the whole sketchbook feels ruined. I’ll flip past the “bad” page a few times, try to convince myself it’s part of the process, but then—more often than not—I give up and reach for a new sketchbook. A clean slate. A fresh chance at perfection.
Perfectionism has a funny way of sneaking into creativity. Somewhere between the joy of making and the fear of messing up, I’d lost the courage to keep going when a page didn’t look “social media-worthy.”
That mindset started to shift one day during a trip to Michaels. I wasn’t even in the sketchbook aisle. I was wandering through the albums and photo sleeves when an idea struck me: What if I stopped thinking in bound pages? What if I used 4×6 postcards for my sketches instead?
With postcards, I wouldn’t be tied to a single storyline on paper. I could keep the pieces I liked and tuck them into an album. The ones that didn’t turn out? I could set them aside—or keep them as part of the process. No pressure for every piece to “match.” No guilt over an ugly page stuck in the middle of a beautiful sketchbook. It felt like creative permission, in the simplest form.
That little revelation came just as I was diving into #the100dayproject, a commitment to creating something—anything—for 100 consecutive days. I chose postcard-sized paper as my canvas, and suddenly the act of sketching became lighter, more joyful. I stopped chasing perfection and started chasing presence.
Some cards were rushed or messy. Others were experiments that didn’t land. But many surprised me with their simplicity, vibrance, or unexpected detail. I kept even the “meh” ones—not to share, but to honor the journey. For the first time in a while, I wasn’t judging each piece by how “finished” it looked. I was proud of showing up.
Then summer arrived, and in typical fashion, I found myself with my kids, hunting for swimwear. Of course, I detoured into the stationery aisle. And there it was: a tiny sketchbook, just $4. It wasn’t watercolor paper—my usual preference—but it was small enough to fit in a pocket or crossbody. I hesitated. I really didn’t need another sketchbook.
But something about its size whispered possibility. So I bought it.
And let me tell you: that little sketchbook has become my summer sidekick.
Whether I’m waiting at the doctor’s office, stalled in traffic pickup lines, or stuck between chores and simmering pots on the stove—this sketchbook has become my go-to instead of my phone. I sketch quickly, freely. Sometimes I color or paint later, but often the simplicity of a pen and paper is enough. It’s a small escape, a portable studio, a reminder that creativity can exist in the margins of everyday life.
Over just 15 days, I filled this mini journal with color, texture, and movement. It’s become a space for experimentation—mixing mediums, testing ideas, following impulses. And best of all, it reflects me, in real time. It’s not curated. It’s not polished. But it’s honest.
In a strange and satisfying twist, this $4 sketchbook is more cherished than many of my “fancier” ones. It’s not trying to be a masterpiece. It’s just a living document of 15 days of trying, doodling, dreaming.
And maybe that’s the best kind of keepsake.
As I look ahead to the rest of summer, I’m already imagining what the next mini collection will look like. This one tiny journal has reminded me that creativity doesn’t require the perfect setup—it just needs a moment, an open mind, and a willingness to let go.
So here’s to more imperfect pages, more pocket-sized inspiration, and more moments reclaimed through art.
