As in, the actual joint, not that I’m a cool cat and hip to that jive, although I totally am. Hm. Anyway, other than a lingering ache, I’m all better, now. Sleep cures many ills.

In other news, I’ve been noodling around with a story idea for a while, and the pressure is building. It’s odd how these things grow. Can you imagine gestating a baby for three or four years? That would be awful. But I’ve been carrying a plot and setting in my brain for at least that long; I think it’s time to get it out. That is the part I hate. Writing is slow, laborious, and boring. Except when it’s not.

Speaking of writing, I’ve been following a debate on The Dish about cursive, and whether or not students should be taught how to write longhand. Not having children, I have no skin in this game, but I enjoyed learning cursive, and it’s still how I do most of my writing. I rarely print, and while typing is faster, I use the transcription process to edit. I like the act of drawing words and sentences, of forming letters. Even back in third grade, I added flourishes and loops to my handwriting.

For years, I used to buy blank books, and carefully copy out favorite poems and quotes in my best handwriting. It helped my memory, my grammar, spelling, and syntax. I think. I still have most of those journals, and I still occasionally refer back to them. They are like personal anthologies; instead of someone else’s selections, sorted according to their logic, I have my own, entirely chronological, collections.

This practice culminated when I copied out the entirety of The Rape of the Lock. That took me an entire summer. I still remember the satisfaction of those last two lines:

This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to Fame,
And mid’st the Stars inscribe Belinda‘s Name!


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