I miss the feeling of pencil or pen on heavy, grainy paper, the texture and the sound it makes as my thoughts and ideas begin to grace the page. Pencil I miss the most, the writing with it is visceral and magical. There is something about the way my words show up slowly with graphite that can never be accomplished with hunt and peck on the keyboard. I’ve gotten used to it, to be sure, the keyboard. It’s faster, it’s easier and editing is done in a flash instead of slowly, laboriously, re-writing what has gone awry. But there is something so personal to writing by hand, in the old-fashioned way. It’s easier to get lost, I think, easier to transport and be transported to some faraway land, or dream, or memory. As a poet, a million and a half years ago, I loved to watch the letters appear, and the look of them was, at times, as important as the words they formed.
Books will never fade away. It’s recently become apparent that, Kindles and E-Readers aside, people love the feel of a book in their hands, the smell of the paper, the weight of it. I feel that way about books as well, with a special fondness for blank books. I have boxes of those in storage, no longer blank, all filled with handwritten snippets of my life, memories of love, memories of music, memories of who I was with clues as to who I would become. Stories written from dreams upon waking, poetry and songs, as well as plain old journal entries telling about my day. Some of it is maudlin, ’tis true, for I was young and far too sensitive when I began my cursive journey, still in High School and shy. Some of it is mortifying to read, but most is not. Most of it is a snapshot of another time, another place, another me. Time travel. Sorcery. The bits and pieces that make up me, the mistakes, the glories, the ups and downs and sideways sections of my life.
Yes, I miss the feeling
Of pen, and pencil