Can A Commonplace Book Improve Creative Writing Skills?

I get really excited when I think about this distinction because the two notebooks on my desk serve totally different moods. A commonplace book is basically my brain's curated playlist — a place where I clip quotes, ideas, recipes, pages from 'Meditations', random lines from comics, and tiny diagrams that might be useful later. I tend to write entries with a short note about why they matter, tag them mentally or literally, and leave plenty of space for cross-references. A journal is where I dump the day's weird feelings, brag about a small victory, or argue with myself on paper. It's chronological, messy, and private; I write to process, not to collect. Whereas a commonplace book is organized for retrieval and future use, a journal is chronological therapy. In practice I flip back through my commonplace when I'm writing or planning a cosplay, and I flip through my journal when I need to track patterns in mood or remember a conversation. Both are precious, but they play very different roles in how I think and create — one saves ideas, the other helps me make sense of being alive.

I still keep a battered notebook in the back pocket of my jacket—coffee stain on page three and a receipt tucked in like a bookmark—so my idea of what a commonplace book should include is pretty practical and tactile. Start with quotes: lines from books, songs, interviews that snagged you. Write who said them and why they matter to you. Next, keep short scene ideas and first lines; those 2–3 sentence sparks are gold when you’m stuck. Add character fingerprints: a stranger’s laugh, a misuse of a word, a unique way someone ties their hair. I jot sensory notes too—what the air smelled like that rainy afternoon—because sensory hooks revive scenes faster than an outline. Also catalogue research tidbits, interesting facts, and timelines. I have a page of “weird laws” and another of food names from regional dialects; both have saved me from lazy exposition. Toss in recurring themes you keep returning to, plus a tiny index at the front with page numbers. Finally, leave space for experiments: micro-fiction, failed metaphors, and thumbnails of structure. Over time the commonplace book becomes less like a scratchpad and more like a private library of triggers and tools I can dip into when I want to write something that feels alive.

I started mine with a cheap spiral notebook and the ridiculous confidence that anything could be useful later — that attitude is half the battle. I treat a commonplace book like a living mixtape of my brain: quotes I trip over, weird images from walks, overheard lines from conversations, half-formed story ideas, and links I’ve bookmarked. My basic rule is low friction: if it takes longer to capture it than to notice it, I’ll lose the moment. So I keep a pen in the cover and a tiny pocket of scraps for receipts or tickets. Structure came later. I added a simple index at the front and a two-word tag at the top of each page. Sometimes I go thematic for a week — drawing-only, or recipe clippings, or snatches of dialogue. On other weeks it’s a mess of everything, which is fine. I borrow prompts from 'Steal Like an Artist' and riff: copy a line that fascinates you, then write one sentence about why. Every Sunday I flip through for five minutes and star the things that spark a real itch to expand into a project. If you’re starting, give yourself a tiny ritual: three items a day, a single sketch, or one paragraph. The pressure to be prolific kills joy; the pressure to be curious sustains it. Start with a page today and see where the threads pull you next.

My favorite discovery in secondhand bookshops is always the little, stubborn history of the commonplace book tradition tucked between covers. It began not as a fad but as a practical habit: ancient Greeks and Romans copied memorable passages, proverbs and rhetorical examples into private notebooks so they could reuse them later. Medieval scholars turned that impulse into 'florilegia'—collections of moral and theological excerpts—and monks pasted sermons and saints' sayings into manuscripts. By the Renaissance the practice exploded. Humanists like Erasmus compiled and reshaped material (see 'Adagia'), students used notebooks for rhetoric classes, and the private commonplace became a way to build identity. John Locke later codified a popular system of headings and indices, which made commonplace books into a kind of personal encyclopedia. In the 18th and 19th centuries you see printed cue-books sold to guide a collector, and women, apprentices, and travelers all kept them—recipes, poems, calculations, and quotations interleaved. If I flip through my own ragged little book, I see the same logic as Niklas Luhmann's later 'Zettelkasten': capture, connect, and revisit. Today it's thriving in new forms—apps, index cards, and digital vaults—yet the charm is unchanged: it's a conversation with yourself, a place where stray thoughts become something knit together over time.

My commonplace book is basically my exam survival kit — it's where I stash tiny, portable wisdom that actually sticks. I keep short, focused entries: one concept per page or card, a crisp definition, a one-sentence example, and a two-line explanation in my own words. When I'm three weeks out from an exam I skim only those pages and mark the ones I can’t explain aloud. That becomes my active-recall queue. I also use progressive summarization: first pass is lecture notes, second pass is boiled-down key lines, third pass is a single headline or question I can quiz myself with. On public-transport study sessions I rewrite one tough concept as a mini-test (question on one side, bullet answers on back). For essays I flip through index tags like 'causes', 'critique', 'examples' and pull 3-4 quotes or facts to adapt into paragraphs. It keeps revision focused and stops me from rereading everything like a zombie. If you love structure, add an index page in the front with page references or tags. If you prefer chaos, use color tabs by theme. Either way, the point is: make retrieval fast, practice explaining, and distill until what’s left is truly memorable. I feel calmer heading into exams when my commonplace book is tidy and battle-ready.

I get a little giddy talking about digital commonplace books — there’s something cozy about collecting stray thoughts in one place. For me, the backbone has been Obsidian: local markdown files, backlinks, graph view, and a huge plugin ecosystem mean I can start tiny and scale into a full Zettelkasten. Pair that with Readwise to capture highlights from Kindle and articles, and Zotero for academic papers, and you’ve covered both casual reading and deep research. I also keep a lightweight capture layer: a mobile note in Apple Notes or Google Keep for lightning thoughts, then triage into Obsidian as fleeting notes or permanent 'evergreen' entries. Web clippers like Raindrop.io or Instapaper are great for long reads; Hypothesis for annotating academic pages; and periodically I export important items to a reference folder with full metadata. Templates help — I use a quick template for literature notes and a different one for project notes. If you want privacy and permanence, prefer markdown + Git or Obsidian’s vault. If you crave databases and polished pages, try Notion. My current stack balances speed (mobile capture), discovery (backlinks/graph), and citation (Zotero), and it keeps me reading and remixing ideas happily — what kinds of things do you usually save?

I still get a little thrill picturing Woolf hunched over a scrap of paper, tearing a beautiful sentence out of a book and tucking it into a slim notebook. For me, her commonplace books feel like backstage passes to the way she read and thought: they’re full of quotations she admired, odd facts she wanted to keep, lines of dialogue, and little images that could be folded later into a novel. I often imagine her moving between diary, letter, and commonplace book—chiseling language in one place and trying it on for shape in another. What fascinates me is how practical and intimate the books are. They weren’t meant to be museum pieces so much as working tools. She jotted down passages to remember, rehearsed rhythms that turned up in 'Mrs Dalloway' and 'To the Lighthouse', and kept lists of names and impressions that could be used or discarded. Reading about them makes me want to keep my own, not as an archive of perfection but as a messy lab where a stray phrase can become a whole scene.

I’ve fallen into a few different rhythms with my notebooks over the years, and honestly, the best rule I’ve found is: capture often, curate regularly. I jot things down whenever a line of dialogue, a neat idea, or a quote sticks with me — that’s instant capture, shorthand and messy and fine. Those quick entries don’t need polish; they just need to survive until I can think about them properly. Once a week I do a short grooming session where I skim the week’s scraps, add tags or a one-sentence context, and move anything that’s actually useful into longer-form pages or my digital index. Then once a month I spend a longer afternoon—coffee, vinyl, maybe an hour or two—reviewing themes, combining notes, and pruning what’s irrelevant. I also do an annual cleanse: archive or toss what hasn’t sparked anything, and celebrate the patterns that did. So update constantly in small bursts and let bigger updates happen on a schedule: weekly for curation, monthly for synthesis, yearly for review. That balance keeps the commonplace book lively without turning it into a guilt project.