On the Tools of the (Writing) Trade
I hate writing on a computer. I do it, of course, sit down behind that glowing screen at the blank white page and stare at the cursor until I muster the courage to begin. I write for a living, so I know that the cursor is not always my friend. Last week I wrote 40 pages of marketing strategy in size 11 Calibri, broken only by headings and the occasional photo or screenshot. I almost cried when, during my final proofread, Word broke the footer and randomly inserted the first page on page 12 as well.
I fixed it eventually, but it was infuriating.
I started writing in elementary school and it was like breathing. I remember two pieces from that time quite distinctly: an essay on world peace I was forced to write for a local contest as a school assignment, and an R.L. Stine rip-off novella about kids at summer camp.
The essay won first place and was printed in the local paper.
The novel never saw the light of day.
I’ve always done my most prolific, successful work when someone else tells me I have to.
That first novel clocked in at forty-five handwritten pages. I barely remember the plot — I’m sure it was a fairly mundane imitation of Stine’s pre-Goosebumps young adult horror — but I remember that. At the time my family didn’t own a computer… personal computing…
