On my distant world we call this substance “paper.”
Tuesday, January 31st, 2006So not even I can carry my laptop everywhere, alas, and Cuthbert the PDA means well and tries hard but is sort of like the Commodore 64 of PDAs. So I wind up not writing sometimes when I’d really like to (on planes, for instance). This is annoying, because I do like to write, and plane rides are really damn boring; might as well see if I can figure out exactly how I want to start up the body of that novel I’ve been poking at.
As I was grumbling about this inherent conflict of writing urge versus back muscles one day, a daring and cutting-edge thought occurred to me: I could, like, write. On paper. Notebooks (made of paper) aren’t heavy. They’d fit in my purse. I could write stuff and carry it around with me. I felt sort of like Keats’ Spaniards with the Pacific new-swum into their ken, if Keats’ Spaniards were of two minds about the whole thing and felt that the ocean was a nifty thing in theory but likely to do things like get them wet and make them smell like seaweed in practice so maybe it would be best to just stay up there on a peak practicing their wild surmise.