I wrote one piddling sentence (12 words, to be exact) on Friday. But the rules of the ongoing challenge I have set up with my editor are that I have to write something every day (except Sunday), and that counts.
Saturday was much more productive, but all written by hand on the tray table of an airplane, so I don’t have a word count. Just seven pages of my awful, tiny handwriting:
I admit: I have had to listen to complaints about my handwriting for years, generally from the recipients of my thank you letters. “What’s this say? Ooga booga bunga?” “Uh…thanks again, love ya.” They’re Rorschach inkblot tests and plausible deniability all rolled into one: that thing that you think you read that offended you? Clearly you’re pessimistic by nature. I definitely said something else.
It also makes for an excellent security feature. Can’t steal what you can’t read. (Because obviously loads of people are out to steal my ideas; can’t be too careful.) And yes, I have locked my own dingus self out of my ideas before, during those absolutely rare* situations in which I’ve failed to translate my own chicken scratch into readable English–especially when an indecipherable word or phrase happens to be the key to understanding the full sentence.
That is, however, less creepy than those times when I can perfectly read something that I don’t remember writing. Nothing like discovering that the stranger writing mystery notes in your handwriting is you. My favorite, to date, are the words “Mr. Stripper” I found in the margins of an old college notebook, written next to a smiling stick figure.
I once took one of those highly accurate “Which Disney princess are you?” quizzes in university (What do you like the most? A.) Sleeping, B.) Reading, C.) Apples); probably while I was supposed to be doing homework, but that’s besides the point. The point is the result–or why I remember this quiz out of the hundreds I’ve used to procrastinate over the years. Not the princess (who I think was Belle because, duh, B.) Reading) but the description that followed her: a bunch of positive things about my brave intelligence, and then the warning, “But be careful! You tend to live in your own world.”
My roommate, when I read it out loud to her, laughed–a kind of surprised bark. “You don’t live in your own world,” she explained, grinning. “You live in several.”
Mr. Stripper probably agrees.