Throughout my Open Uni course we are encourage to ditch the pc, get a little notebook and pen and scribble things in them for everyday inspiration. We are also encouraged to write our little musings, pieces of stories and bits of poetry in longhand in our little notebook. I think it has something to do with writing each word carefully and thus thinking about their usage.
Pondering the word, so to speak.
Normally I use what's left of my brain to store these kinds of information and then tap them all out on a word.doc on my pc afterwards. But being a willing participant, I thought, hell why not??
So off I go one day doing my usual people watching and conversation eaves-dropping except this time, I become all writer-ly and every so often take my little notebook (a rather nifty little pad with embossed velvety covers from Paperchase) and my pentel biro and scribble observations, mini-stories, words that come to me inspired by the everyday.
As I walk home from a full day's creative nosey-ing, I feel quite happy with myself. I grin like the Cat when being tickled under the chin. My pad is brimming with words, words, words. My pad is bulging to half full with ink and calligraphy.
Except of course, there is a catch.
I have the most atrocious handwriting on this planet bar the doctors who write prescriptions (in the days when prescriptions were still written - yes I am that old).
When I start to write longhand, I always do so with the best of intentions. I start with the careful curve, the required slant and the florid loop of the letter but by the time I get to the end of the word, the careful script is a line, a squiggle, a doodle.
And so it goes on with each subsequent word, each sentence, each line.
I return home to my pc with a pad full of illegible scribbles.
And what is the moral of this story for me? That I ought to join a course in the art of penmanship...