Writing is tough

When I was a kid I loved handwriting, though I didn't really know what it was. You see, in my tiny-child-brain I differentiated "handwriting" from printing; it was any squiggly barrage of well-slanted loops that my poor young mind couldn't decipher. It was like code, and I desperately wanted to learn it. I relished the sound my pencil made against paper when I would pretend to "handwrite". It was fun.

But oddly, when it came time to learn cursive script in school I was less than enthused. Actually, it was a simple misunderstanding: I did not know what 'cursive' meant. All I wanted was to learn how to "handwrite". I was certain we were learning something else.

Besides, the quaintly joined-together letters I begrudgingly traced bore no resemblance to the manic up-and-downery that I saw in my parents' notes -- or that I would imagine furiously scribbled by balding men with a quill. The cursive I learned just looked like printing for folks too lazy to lift their pen. The letters were so fat and round, it was disgusting frankly. I held out for when they were going to teach us the real way to write.

Of course, that day never came. Only too late did I realize that I missed the entrée.

So now my handwriting is an irregular hybrid of printing and cursive that is constantly evolving, since I never developed a consistent system of writing. That's not to say I can't write legibly, or cursively: I do, and can, but it feels unnatural. Instead, my writing looks like manic printing adorned with wild filigree that also serves to loosely hold my words together like art deco girders; well that, or I write in all uppercase like a comic book artist or architect or someone else from some shithead vocation where you're proud of your printing ability.

What this means is, I write very slowly by hand, and unless I am concentrating, the product descends quickly into a morass of sloppy loops and scribbles. For evidence just look at the last few pages of any of my university exam booklets. Or this stack of suicide notes. Or this grocery list.

I only mention this to emphasize how considerable an obstacle this is for a sort-of writer like me. I literally don't like to write.

Unless I am near a computer -- which is often, but (apparently) not often enough in the right circumstances -- I am armed only with a notepad and a pen. The pen too, has to be perfect. Ball point pens are stupid and shitty. Period. (Unless they are those solid-coloured papermate pens that offices buy by the pound, which, for some reason, at some point in their pen-lives, begin to produce ink in unpredictable goopy blobs. I enjoy this in the same way certain folks enjoy chunks of fruit in a smoothie (not in the exact same way mind you), but I digress.)

Why am I telling you all this? Well, first, because I have nothing else to write about and this is my web-log and fuck you.

And second, I really don't know. Perhaps I'm feeling nostalgic for the thrill I used to get from scribbling crazy loops on a page, in code, like a bald man with a quill. (Though I have to admit I now prefer being able to understand my writings.)

Or maybe I'm trying to justify the length between recent posts. Or maybe this pathetic entreaty will convince someone to buy me a laptop (or hiptop!) computer. Who knows. The truth, gentle reader, is up to you.

I have to go practise my alphabet now.