In case you can’t read my scratchings:
Sometimes my writing is just so I can hold the pen and watch the words come out of the nib, liquidly, with ink in whatever colour I might have chosen (usually an unimaginative shade of blue, or plain black, but that’s not the point.)
Right now I’m writing this with my special-purchased-in-Den Haag-Pelikan with its beautiful bold [i meant broad] nib and just loving how it all feels on its paper. Writing my letters with extra flourishes, just so, because I can.
Writing for the sheer mechanics of writing. I hope I never stop enjoying this aspect of it, too mundane for most, I suppose.
Other times, of course (in fact most times) the writing is because I have something to say. Or I just want to see my words onscreen. (This month’s writing exercises have been challenging, though. I had to stop writing confessional pieces every single day. I don’t think anyone should be subjected to reading that much tripe!)
It’s not just the physical act of writing, pleasurable though I find it, but the thought that’s behind it, the ideas and the choice of words to convey them, the construction of sentences. I love choosing one word over another, exercising my vocabulary muscles.
I was thinking today about my writing and imagining how my writing would be if I wrote as much as I read. (Is there enough time in the day for that much reading and writing?) Presumably – hopefully – my writing skills would improve.
I don’t think I have a book in me. I mean, I’ve never wanted to write a book, or a novel. From time to time I idly toy with the idea of doing a PhD but I don’t know if there’s any topic that would engage me that much.
I already said I have to write a fair bit for my job (email, papers, articles, reports). Ultimately I just want to write better. However that’s defined.
Today’s topic: “Me and my writing”.