|Yes, I hand wrote this post first.|
Because the irony of blogging
about handwriting is not lost
on me. Well, maybe a little.
At some point, I quit carrying them. I blame the computer. I quit writing by hand because I'm quicker on the computer, because it's easier to edit, because even I can't read my writing some days. Because I find the sound of the keyboard to be soothing.
About a year ago, I started carrying a comp book. It doesn't serve the same purpose - my comp books tend to fill with meeting minutes, grocery lists, meal plans and budgets. (I grew up and got boring.) But carrying around that book has taught me something, or reminded me of something. I like to write. I don't mean writing as in creative writing. I knew that. I've never forgotten that, despite the fact that I don't do it nearly enough. I mean, I like the physical act of pen meeting paper: the light scritching noise, the magic of ink left behind, the sharp ache of hand cramps.
There's a magic to writing on the computer. The clicking keyboard, the black on white and the steady scroll. It's the magic of technology. It's sleek and clean, smelling of ozone. The magic of pen and paper is older - more visceral. It's a cauldron of bubbling brew on a starlit night. Herbs and fire and the clean smell of the outdoors.
One is not superior to the other, necessarily. But neither is one a replacement for the other. Today, I'm focusing on old magic. On the joy and pain and mystical forces of ink. On the bright flame of magic across a dark night.