I admire C’s life choices lately, her decision to focus on the tactile and textured rather than pushing a cursor around the screen. Her willingness to make messes. She lives among pots of ink, brushes, wax, and specialty papers. And I’m excited about the things she’s learning to do to a canvas.
For a moment I burn with dumb envy, thinking an analogue life is impossible for writing. Then I remember the obvious and power down my screens. I pick up a pen and begin to write the next scene in my book. And I’m reminded that I think better without the screen tugging at my thoughts like a magnet. The pen can wander and roam, liberated to make interesting messes because it already knows it will never look like the finished product.
