Musings and Personal · Writing

My Writing Experience

I wrote the following blog post by hand a couple of days ago:

I’m sitting at the baseball park where Eli has practice and the girls are playing.

Well, Payton is playing. Paige is sitting next to me and whining about I don’t know what because I can’t understand her.

But I digress…

I’m listening to the lawn mower (not blocking out Paige’s whining, I might add) and sitting on a bench in the shade, with the breeze blowing the scent of something floral I can’t identify because I kill all plants a black thumb.

Why don’t I do this more often? (Not listen to whining. I do that more than enough.) I mean, why don’t I soak up the sun and write my thoughts and inspirations with such primitive tools as pen and paper more often?

Internet Black Hole

My excuse: Going outside and writing by hand takes so much longer.

Or does it?

The Internet is like a black hole that sucks you inside and creates multiple tabs of ADHD in the form of social media networks, email, blogs and information we used to read in Encyclopedia Britannica, but now find on Wikipedia.

This is what my writing experience can and often does look like:

  1. Boot up the computer and open my Word document.
  2. Visit after using the same word four times.
  3. Remember I need to visit Twitter because I haven’t done so yet today.
  4. Notice a tweet that looks interesting and follow the link.
  5. Go to Facebook and repost the article after hitting like.
  6. Notice new pictures of my nephew that I have to comment on.
  7. Glance at the clock and realize I’ve just blown my time management budget.

It’s kind of like the bookIf You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura Numeroff.

Am I the only one with this problem?

The first draft of my memoir was handwritten, the second completed as I transcribed it to the computer, and the third a combination of both. The fourth was a developmental edit done entirely on the computer, and now I’m working through a fifth that is, again, a combination.

I know this handwriting thing works, that it can be done.

So, why don’t I grab a pen and paper, sit myself down in a lawn chair with a glass of lemonade, and let the words fly from my fingertips?

The truth is that I don’t know and I suspect there is no good reason.

I’ve decided that the next time I want to write something from scratch, I’m going to open the patio door, bring my crisp, icy lemonade, and give the words wings.

Unless it’s 106 degrees out like yesterday. No amount of cold lemonade can make that a pleasant experience…


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