I’m writing in a notebook because I felt the need to fill blank pages with pretty blue handwriting. I’m trying to resist the urge to rip out the pages and start over when something looks sloppy. I’ve already failed once.
I don’t like my handwriting. I could never get my lowercase b’s and k’s to look right – or my capital G’s. My handwriting is an inelegant mix mosh of cursive and print. The obsessive compulsive in me is screaming to get to the computer where the words are always neatly spread across the page.
But I miss writing in notebooks and journals. I miss the writer’s bump on my right ring finger. It’s not even a bump anymore – barely a rough patch. I once wore that callus with pride – it was a symbol of my passion . . . but all the keyboard gives me is carpel tunnel.
I’ve almost covered an entire page in the purple marble copy book I bought for 50 cents 4 years ago at Rite Aid. I bought 6 of them because, well, they were 50 cents. There’s still one left untouched, but the others have barely more than a few pages filled – all sporadic and short-lived attempts at getting back in the habit of writing by hand.
I don’t know if this will become a regular thing. I honestly doubt it. But it was nice to watch the ink spread across the page, to listen to the scratching of my pen, to feel the slight cramp in my hand, and to even see my mix moshed handwriting laid out in front of me.
