Yesterday was a writing day. And most of the writing was done by hand, in one of my favorite Moleskine notebooks, with a pencil.
I was somewhat forced to take this approach since my still-healing shoulder decided to stage a protest against the amount of typing I’d been doing this week. So if I was going to write, it would have to be the old-fashioned way. The results were unexpectedly satisfying.
Although handwriting is perhaps painfully slow in comparison to a 90 wpm typing speed, there is something to be said for the way it lends to the creative process. I found myself able to think through a phrase or a sentence as I was writing it (I will add here that I am not at all a fast hand writer) and I’d be thrilled with how it looked. And when I did change my mind about what I’d written, I would simply cross it out and continue.
I like the fact that everything is there. The good words, the not so good ones still visible under the lines used to cross them out, the notes to self in the margins, the arrows to indicate rearrangement of sentences or paragraphs. There’s something about it that generates a feeling of accomplishment much more so than seeing a screen full of perfectly formed words. Does that make sense?
The contents of my notebook have been created with my own hand. And I like what I see.
I am a writer.