So, Sue Me

So, what I need to admit to myself is that I am a computer kid. I am someone who writes most quickly an efficiently on a keyboard. The thoughts come out better, the cadence is better, I have a better feeling for the cadence, for the rhythm, for the words. Perhaps because my handwriting is bad enough that it interferes with the immediacy of the feedback. And there is and always has been something for me in seeing the words in other forms, in something very close to the final form. While editing in particular, I need the font and the typesetting to look as close to what the book/story itself is going to look like—or it at least need to look something like a “real” book.

So after all this money, all this time fucking around with fountain pens and dip pens and ink and fancy paper and shit, the endless futzing with nibs and fussing over texture and waffling a load of horseshit about the importance of the tactile process, I’m back to where I started, writing as I have always written. (This is not entirely true, I have literal shelves of notebooks full of notes and ideas and poetry, but in terms of actually composing long-form stories, screenplays, novels, etc. I have always been on a computer or a typewriter.) And so, I finally allow myself to write in a way that does not inhibit the writing. which actually has less senory input, and less to distract me. I can turn the lights off, and I can achieve the sensory deprivation that I need for thoughts to be able to form in my head. Too much light, too much sound and the whole of my concentration ends up out the fucking window (literally).

A dim screen in a candle-lit room. And it’s funny. After all of this hardship and principled bullshit about doing real things int he way of a real writer, where do I end up? Right back on the very same 2014 Acer netbook I used to write the first novel I ever finished. It’s right there, on the desk by the window, its orange light flashing at me, telling me that it’s ancient battery has finally stopped charging altogether. But the poor old thing continues to chug along, and is still the best computer I have ever owned.

It makes me think about principle as a concept, living by principle, that is. I don’t know how it is for other people, but 99% of the time the principle I’m trying to follow, to live my life by, just fucking gets in the way. It makes things difficult in a way that brings almost no satisfaction at all when I do manage to fight my way to actually finishing something. I understand the need for virtue, the importance of doing your best to always do your best, but there is always a point at which good intention slides into pedantry, and you suddenly find yourself unable to fall into the flow of anything. You are constantly assessing, critiquing, poking and prodding at yourself with the aim of uncovering the pernicious evil that hides beneath your skin.

There is nothing wrong with typing. There is nothing inherently better about using a pen and paper. The human brain can learn to see by way of an 8x8 pixel grid that applies pressure to the tongue. Some people write better and more comfortably and more freely with pen and paper, but that isn’t me. I’ve learned how to express myself via the clickity clack of plastic keys. So sue me.