Okay, so yesterday I found myself with some time to kill, and I happen to have this novel what needs writin’, so I sits myself down in Starbucks with a double tall soy latte, my beautiful 5-subject notebook and lovely pen – and figured I’d get happy for an hour.
Anyway, I’m plugging along, feeling quite happy about the Penman Shipwreck, and very happy about Ether. Thoughts fly by my brainly parts about how glad I am to be writing with pen and paper again, and how I must be sure to thank Pete again for nudging me back on this path. I’m thrilled to learn I do still have enough stamina to plug out several pages in a sitting, and using Aspercreme, can manage more that evening. I’ve fallen back in love with leather-bound journals and the idea of jotting down story notes, ideas, even stick-figure representations, maps and such. I feel once again as if I’m delving into my worlds, not just skimming over them in a hovercraft or something.
And, I must say with no small lack of humilty, I’m thinking to myself that my penmanship isn’t all that bad. I get to the top of a page, and while my hand is feeling good and my ink is flowing, I’m even entertaining thoughts that my hand writing is pretty damn good. It’s certainly legible. It’s precise, bold, spaced enough to be easily read. “Yes, by God, I’m going great” I suggest to myself with glee.
About an hour later, with Starbucks having grown way too noisy and annoying for me, I pack up the notebook – back into my handy dandy and much loved Barnes & Nobel book bag – put the pen away in the little pocket, grab my keys and head off home. There, I get comfortable on the couch, open up that notebook to take a quick glance over my beautifully written words, and find – this:
The fuck is that! And who wrote it! Gah!
Luckily for me, I have a Masters in Gibberish, and can transcribe these lines in the evening hours.