A Late Start

Today my day started late, and I did not finish my morning ritual of three handwritten pages in my notebook, a rare thing in my life. Even when I have no news, no fiction or poetry, words crawl across lines on paper, and I feel a connection between my brain and my right hand and its pen gliding on the page. The paper matters too, needs narrow lines and just the right tooth and thickness. Of course, in our era of keyboards and words cradled in light on a screen, pen and ink cause some people to frown and wonder why I bother. It’s okay, I’m not a total luddite. My handwritten words often become neatly lined print in a legible font.

            Why then bother to write the way I do? It’s old fashioned, right? Well, for one thing no one else could create my penmanship any more than they could duplicate my brain waves, even if they wanted to. My writing is as personal as my fingerprints or my voice. So, now it’s 3:47 pm as I write, and this hour will not be duplicated. The singularity of time and voice and words in this moment, it’s a beautiful thing.

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