The fountain pen feels heavy in my hand. I haven’t written for a long time. I mean written – not typed. That I do every day, all day. Click, click. Irregular, hollow. I tap the plastic keys, one letter at a time, and words appear on my computer screen. Words someone else has written, thought, felt. Words I mutate into another language. Making myself think them, feel them. Click, click.
No words flow out. My nib is like a dried-up fountain. The pathway between my brain and my hand is overgrown with brambles, and my thoughts are caught up somewhere in that darkness.
I suddenly realise that even writing these few lines has been stressful and tiring. An effort.
I pause. Shall I put the pen down? What if I can’t pick it up again? A flush of anxiety rushes into my face. Cold. I begin to write again. Slowly, gingerly. Piano piano.
I think of a cartoon in The New Yorker that hangs framed in my study, my bottega. A little boy watches as a cute little girl is scribbling on the sidewalk. I try to write a little every day, the caption says.
Baby steps. One foot, then another. The black ink briefly glistens on the paper before turning matt. I take my time to form the letters, join them, taking care to place the dots above the is and not let them float randomly. Making sure I round my letters so my as and es are legible.
My rosewood and chrome Faber Castell seems like a close friend you haven’t seen for a long time. You used to talk over each other and now you can’t think of anything to say. The intimacy’s gone. You look at each other with trepidation and fear of disappointment, hoping to detect the gold thread that connected you in the past, so you can pick it up again. You search for the bridge that used to join you. You know it can’t have crumbled – nothing that can’t be repaired with a few stones and a little mortar – you just can’t remember the way to it. Any minute now you’re going to turn a corner and see it right in front of you.
And so I keep writing, slowly, gingerly, trusting in the brilliant black ink flowing steadily through the nib, taking root on the cream page. Forming every letter carefully, lengthening the stems, evening out the loops, connecting them into words. Almost any words.
Trusting that my thoughts will start to light up the overgrown pathway and seep into my nib. Soon.
One word at a time. Slowly. Piano piano.
Scribe Doll
Scribe Doll 
Despite the adage in the joke, about writing a little bit every day, even best friends sometimes benefit from a little time away from one another. I’ve found that I can suddenly write heaps of poetry for a certain length of time, and then nothing for a month or two. And then, sometime after that, it returns again. So, don’t beat yourself up over not having written. The writing muscle is not like the others, it depends on inspiration as well as practice, and it’s my theory that if you try to force yourself too hard to write when you don’t feel inspired, you can do more harm than good. Just write what you can when you can, and then polish it up. (Listen to me, being bossy and giving advice, as if everyone didn’t have their own way of doing things! I’m sort of saying to you what I’ve told myself before…..)
This isn’t about writer’s block or lack of inspiration but a lack of time (work) and mental space (also work). I miss writing. It’s as though I have been holding my breath for so long that my lungs have shrunk. As you say, to each his/her own. I find that if I don’t write regularly my creativity gets clogged up. Thank you, as ever, for your support :–)
I am happy to come across your blog. I’ve read few of your writings so far, and liked your style. The handwriting delight is something I can relate to, albeit I rarely write with a pen. But when I do, the flow of my ideas becomes stoppable.
I’m so glad you enjoy my writing. Thank you for your ind words!
Please, keep the ink flowing to the page! Each word is a bud flowering on that path.
Thank you, dearest Barbara.
Wonderful post, Katia, and understand all too well your writing issues. ~nan
Thank you for your kind words, Nan.
Lovely. Your musings inspire me to practice writing letters to friends again.
The snippets of dreams I scribble in my notebook after waking are hardly legible to myself.
Letters. Ah, I remember those.
Dear Scribe Doll: I am not sure how I found you in the blogosphere; but I wanted to let you know how much I enjoy your musings and meditations. I wish you all the best as you take up your pen on a daily basis and write out your words.
Sincerely,
Nancy
That’s so kind of you! Thank you! I hope I can carve out a little time for my own writing in my insanely busy work schedule.
Such a nice post about writing… 🙂
Thank you. It’s heartfelt.