Before reading this, please ignore the irony that is the fact this has been typed up for my blog. Note that I’d handwritten it personally first, and then adapted it for digital purposez. Ahem:
I just totally did a huge panic because I thought there wouldn’t be a pen in this house, and I’d have to go and knock next door to ask them for any form of stationery, in order to bear my entire soul on a piece of paper. My dad has left for work, and I got very irrational – like “What kind of a PERSON doesn’t have a pen in the house!!”
Before you’re all “Hey! You claim to be a writer-sort type, why don’t you have a pen to hand, or a quill behind ear etc?” Buddy- I, somehow, miraculously- have carried a purple pen around for the past 9 months that my friend Becky bought me for my 18th birthday and today it RAN OUT. (Stay with me.)
I had managed to not lose a pen for NINE MONTHS. Is this some glorious sign that maybe now I have become an adult? Nine months doing other things pretty much identifies you as being adult and a holder of huge responsiblities (struggling to make a comparison between my pen story and the gift of pregnancy)
But still! I was beyond thrilled that I’d managed to run this pen dry. It posed the question of my existence: If you use up the ink in a pen but noone else knows of the empty cartridge, was the ink ever used up at all?
Luckily, I found a pen in my coat and took the first deep breath in about four minutes. Journal writing is indulgent but I’m an absolute advocate for it. In some ways- all forms of writing are a little indulgent, believing people will want to read the words you choose to piece together in a particular order. *blushes upon realisation of what this is*
The handwritten word is something we must never lose. I have these horrible dystopian images of the future where we are all wearing Google Glass and pens are abolished because our thoughts can be translated straight into typeface. Handwriting is a lovely, rare thing- even now. There is nothing like seeing the handwriting of someone you find intimidating. When they can’t hide behind Calibri, their squashed, messy, smudgey handwriting reminds us that we’ll all the same. Ha ha! You have the handwriting of a toddler! You can’t fool me!
Likewise, there is nothing like handwriting to make you heart someone. I love the nakedness of it, ah! Here is me! When I move my hand, the symbols I create are this : and thus we can communicate! I walked 45 minutes in the icy cold today, and upon arriving at the office, I had to fill out a sign in sheet. My hands were so twisted and cold, I may as well have put a fake name and address on: my handwriting was completely unrecognisable. To me, anyway. But of course people don’t know that.
I am very fangirl-y over those gifted people who can adapt any style of autography in seconds, a form of written convergence. They can make their millions completing essays for secondary school kids. It’s all mapped out for the calligraphically proficient. An easy buck.
I love my boyfriend’s handwriting so much. The first time I saw it was on a mixtape in his car called ‘Pick up Parents’ CD. I was like, “Wow- you have cramped scribbly boy handwriting. (ever the charmer) The next time I saw it properly was when looking at one of his to-do lists. These things are monstrous- take up an entire page of A4 and have SERIOUS detail. With his cramped scribbly boy handwriting though, it made it ever more endearing, and made me think of him as a real human with hands (which, with my history of boys- is at least an improvement.)
Writing here at this table at half past 9 makes me feel like I could be a proper writer, if I applied myself. This is basically half of it, right? Sitting at the breakfast table in the early (ish) morning with a black coffee and a maple and pecan danish. Maybe I’ve got the total wrong idea, but ignorance is bliss, and how blissful.
I don’t really know who I’m writing for, and for what purpose. There is something nice about that, something indirectly not nice about it. Why do I write? Who is it for? What good can I create with my writing? *bites into Danish*
I finished another journal last night and, rather narcissisticly, it fills me with a quiet sort of pride. The diary documents the beginnings of a relationship, and I’m so glad I’ve written some of that down so I can remember some of the stuff that we often omit (i.e huge essays like…DOES HE EVEN LIKE ME???!) You forget there were once times like that now you shave your legs in front of him.
Until next time, folks!