Writing Practice

 Pages of a novel I wrote while in high school have been lurking in this notebook since the 1960s.

I can remember writing in study hall in Mrs. Tronetti's reading classroom near the high school library, in one of those desks with the book rack under the seat. I favored a fountain pen - blue ink with the cartridges that slid into place. and it tended to smudge a bit on the coarse paper - even though the cover of the tablet boasts of superior quality paper. I remember the vague discomfort of stockings attached with garters under my dress and the care taken to be ladylike in posture to keep from giving anyone a glimpse under the skirt. We girls were not allowed the luxury of wearing pants or jeans to school except on the last day of the year.

After 60+ years I'm still writing.  I've filled pages and pages with words put together in notebooks of all sorts since those Goldenrod tablet days. My youthful handwriting is unrecognizable to me - much like my handwriting of 20 years ago and even a couple of weeks ago.

Much of what feels like my 'real' work is accomplished these days on my little laptop computer. Hard drive, thumb drive, backup drive - all available with a few keystrokes. There's a novel (or two) in progress, a memoir of sorts, family history stories, short stories, essays, blog posts.

It's rather solitary work - just me and my computer trying to avoid the myriad distractions of life that take me to less solitary pursuits. But still I persist - and sometimes I'm getting it right. And sometimes, it all feels wrong and clunky and like yet another cliche.

Writing Practice - of the sort taught by Natalie Goldberg and Julia Cameron - still calls for writing by hand, even if it's for 10 minutes, every day, no editing, no judgment. Pick a topic - any topic - set the timer, and write. "Keep the hand moving," she says even if you write over and over the same thought. 

And this new year, I have the joy of opening a new notebook - and the joy of putting on paper those first few lines with a new fast-writing pen!

ADDENDUM: JANUARY 25, 2024

Arthur stomped the snow off his shoes on the porch before stepping into the steamy kitchen where I was stirring a pot of pasta for our dinner. He had made the late-afternoon trip to the mailbox and handed me a manilla envelope. "This is for you," he said. And this is what I pulled out.

A brand new Goldenrod tablet and I bet he paid more than the 25 cents stamped on the cover.