Chloé A. Hilliard

• May 18, 2009
• 5 Comments
• Blog, The Basics

I miss writing.

Not this typing on a keypad or phone (I’m doing the later as I ride the subway). I miss sitting at a table (gasp) with a notebook (double gasp) and an assortment of pens and freshly sharpened pencils (remember those).

Like most journalists/writers, I not only love the process of finding and developing the story, I love the song and dance of physically writing it.

As a little kid my aunt taught me how to type. I’d sit at the keys punching away on the typewriter because I loved the sound of it. Then we moved up to a word processor and finally a desktop computer. Still, when it came time to do a school paper I would sit at the dining room table with my artillery of supplies.

- Pen/Pencils

- Plenty of clean, crisp paper normally of the 3-ring loose leaf variety

- Index Cards

You’d think with all this prep work the writing would come easily. Instead, I stare at the faint blue lines thinking of the right words. Normally, I’d write three intros before moving on. (Funny, I sometimes do the same thing now. It’s better to give your editor more to work with than less.) Then, right when I find myself in a groove–ink flowing smoothly across the page–I’d jump to the computer refining my written draft as I typed and continuing where I left off.

On the page I could see my train of thought without having to scroll up. A misdirection could be crossed out but find its place elsewhere. My success was measured by how many pages I completed–front and back–that is until I learned about word counts.

Now, I’ve trained myself to start and finish on the computer but the feeling isn’t the same. The humming noise of my computer’s fan taunts me as I sit at my desk drained but determined to get just a few more words typed before I call it a night. The cursor blinks impatiently, “Well, what are you waiting for?” If it had a foot, I’m sure it’d be tapping it.

I miss writing so long that I’d had to shake my right hand out and wonder why my mother didn’t teach me to be ambidextrous. I miss the mix of pride and frustration I felt when my favorite pen ran out of ink. I miss the swelling in my chest when people marvelled at my penmanship.

The last time I saw hand writing in a professional journalism setting was from a former co-worker, who shall remain nameless. He’d turned his weekly column in via a handwritten fax! His words scrawled across the line-less page, trailing off towards the end of each sentence. An editorial assistant had to retype it word by word. I thought to myself, “Who does that? Hell, can I do that?” All typing has gotten me is weak eyes and a touch of carpal tunnel, which is why I’m ending this here. My thumbs hurt.

- ch