The Unspoken Rules of Annotating Like a Chaos Goblin

Annotations are a battlefield. Half of us treat books like sacred relics: white gloves, no folds, spines uncracked. The other half? We’re writing full dissertations in the margins and highlighting like we’re being paid in neon ink.

Here’s my toxic annotating trait: I’ll write something dramatic like “SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP” in all caps, then in the next chapter scribble a tiny heart because the love interest did one (1) bare minimum thing. Consistency? Never heard of her.

And let’s talk about sticky tabs. Oh, you thought they were organized? Babe, mine are chaos incarnate. Pink = anger? Or maybe it was banter? Blue = sad? Or spicy? Who knows. By the end, it’s just a rainbow explosion that looks like Lisa Frank exploded on my novel.

Unhinged tip: annotate like your future self is a stranger finding your diary. Write nonsense. Draw doodles. Circle a sentence and write, “me when I lie.” Future you will be delighted (or concerned, but either way entertained).

Because at the end of the day, annotated books are time capsules of your messy little reader brain. And if that means future me finds a margin note that just says “👀👀👀,” so be it.