I used to write letters.
One letter cost several pages, withdrawn from the front of my ever-blank journal. All but the last page ended up in the trash, scrunched up beyond recognition.
I didn’t know how to start.
It’s rather difficult to start something with the grace and perfection achieved only after the thousandth, maybe two thousandth, time trying it.
Still, I aim for the impossible.
I adjust my pencil grip; I lost the angle I had before. Great. The ‘e’ looks different from all the other ‘e’s and everything is ruined.
I have a perfect sentence in mind.
But the last word doesn’t fit within the line. Maybe I can squeeze it in? I can’t. So now I must choose: a blurry cluster of squished up letters, or a whole new paragraph with just one little word hanging off the end. Maybe substitute my perfect, six-letter word, for a subpar three-letter word?
Truth is, all answers are incorrect.
But I didn’t know that then. I tried to erase my inevitable mistake. Now, there is smear across the page. I tear another new, clean, and un-blotched page from my journal.
Yes, I used to write letters. Many, many letters.
Now my pencil is a keyboard, but (to keep the metaphor alive) I’m still tired of wasting paper.
This page is a little different from one in the journal of a six-year-old perfectionist. It is for me, and I’m just writing.
There may be hanging sentences, but just hang on.