For about a year, I wrote in my diary every single day. Much like this project, several entries were Twitter/Status-length, about one sentence that I'd elaborate on later. Since this project though, I haven't really written anything by hand outside of work.
So, today, armed with my luggage-sized purse, my sister's iPad, and Craig Ferguson on Netflix (love, love love that man!) I hogged a small table at B&N and wrote. And I wrote some more. And I crossed out, circled, doodled on the sides, and wrote and wrote and wrote enough to fill up pages in my old nursing notebook for about three hours. There's always been something wonderfully calming about writing, not necessarily the process of it (because getting the right words down can sometimes be the most frustrating part) but the simple act of it; touching the pen to paper, the short strokes to make the letters perfect, the long, loopy ones when a single thought rushes out that you don't have time to lift the pen. I like seeing my words, start out perfunctory, small and concise turn into these mad, semi-cursive phrases and ideas that spill onto the page in a literary gush and find myself realizing that I've been doing it for two hours without noticing.
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