On (My) Handwriting

An illegible scrawl nestled somewhere between hieroglyphic and anxiety-ridden chicken, my handwriting is, for better or worse, the truest, most elemental manifestation of the rhythm of the work at hand; it is exorcism devoid of judgement, a clearing house to conjure that mythic true sentence out of a haze of dried-out ink and word vomit.

With non-fiction, I find it best to type – I write these words on the Macbook Air, in full appreciation of the irony attendant in typing an ode to handwriting; with fiction, however, it is only through the tactile rhythm of writing by hand that I am most capable of entering that necessary state of lost time.

The results are a matter for another day – assuming, of course, that I can read them.

Happy Sunday.

Reading: THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS, by Ursula K. Le Guin

(TW)