Breathing Words

I know I’m really in no position to say this, and that it will come off as childish whining because it isn’t as if I don’t have the time or the freedom, and really, it’s just because I’ve been lazy and moving around in this odd fog for so many months, but…

I miss writing.

I miss the excitement of a new idea. The puzzle of placing the right words in the right order. The search of the precise adjective that doesn’t sound too flowery or too pretentious.

And since I do most (not that there’s been much of it lately) of my writing on computers these days…

I miss the pen in my hand. The loops and dashes of my cursive that I painstakingly worked at as an adolescent. The smudges of ink remaining on my hands and fingers because I am left-handed.

You know, I used to practice different types of handwriting. I would experiment with g’s and f’s. The capital Z will always be the ugliest cursive letter to me. Even when I didn’t use cursive, I would practice the sizing of my letters, writing a’s like they are here in this blog, or the lazy way, just a loop with a tail. I wanted my letters to be perfect because the highest praise to me was always, “Your handwriting is beautiful! I can’t believe you’re left-handed!”

What an odd goal. To fool the world with my handwriting. Or to prove that lefties aren’t gimped. Both I suppose.