A few months ago I bought this notebook and a 3-pack of these really great mechanical pencils. I was going to start writing a novel, maybe short stories, by hand. On college ruled paper. In cursive.
I thought this would make a really good story when I was doing readings in Athens, Ohio, and Santa Fe, New Mexico, and Plainview, Minn.
"So, I wrote it out long hand," I'd say, a little bit shyly. People would gasp. Then I'd make up some bullshit about the organic nature of writing without the distraction of a cursor and Facebook and my Google reader. But really, it would just be so that I'd have that story.
It's so interesting when a blogger publishes a book, and then all of a sudden their site becomes a list of cities and lost luggage and what they drank with who and where. They're all: "No time to blog. I have a reading in 15 minutes at Barnes & Noble in Richmond and my hair looks like shit and this shirt makes me look fat. More later! With photos!"
Yeah, I haven't been writing in that notebook. But I might start writing those posts regardless.