I LOVE YOU ABE LINCOLN!

Summary

The author reflects on the evolution of their writing process, from traditional tools like pencil, paper, and typewriters to modern computers, while expressing a continued affection for the tactile experience of handwriting.

Abstract

The text is a personal narrative detailing the author's journey through various writing tools and technologies. Initially committed to pencil and paper, the author describes their transition to a word processor and later to a classic typewriter, each time adapting to new methods of writing. Despite an initial resistance to composing on a computer, the author finds a balance between digital and traditional writing methods, acknowledging the practicality of computers for drafting while still cherishing the intimate and permanent nature of handwriting. The author concludes with a declaration of enduring love for the traditional process of writing by hand, symbolized by the quill and reminiscent of historical figures like Abe Lincoln.

Opinions

The author has a deep reverence for the traditional writing process, equating the use of pencil and paper to a battlefield commitment.
The transition to a word processor was a significant leap for the author, akin to entering a new frontier of writing.
The Red Remington typewriter held a special allure for the author, despite its practical shortcomings.
Writing on a computer was initially seen as heretical, a betrayal of historical writing methods.
The author believes that writing by hand gives words a different, more permanent quality than typing on a screen.
Despite the efficiency of computers, the author maintains that writing by hand is an irreplaceable practice that offers a unique connection to one's words.
The author suggests that while computers are useful tools for writing, they do not replace the sensory and emotional experience of handwriting.

I brought my quill

I used to swear by a pencil and paper. Swear! Take no prisoners. Die on the battlefield, commitment to writing with my right hand. My left hand was for eating or smoking or scratching. I wasn’t playing the piano. I was writing. It was asymmetrical.

My jump from pencil and paper to my Brother Word Processing Machine was like a leap into outer space. The sexy ink whirring onto the page made me feel like I had my very own printing press. The final product seemed like something you could bind.

Then I graduated to a classic collector’s item Red Remington typewriter, which was more like a middle-aged crisis than a typewriter. I admired it. The ‘e’ never worked, but it was pretty. It made me feel like a flashy Ernest Hemmingway.

I never believed, in all my days, that I would ever write a first draft on a computer. “Heresy!” I would have declared. Words were not supposed to appear on a screen as soon as they came to mind.

Writing a first draft on a computer felt like giving up on Abe Lincoln. It felt like exiling his candle-lit cabin where he dipped his feather into his ink well, his white blouse ink-stained like blood, foreshadowing his violent end. How could I tell Abe I gave up the quill?

I’ve found a compromise. Writing is writing. If you’re out of practice at writing endlessly on paper, you can take notes. You can draw pictures. You can organize ideas with diagrams. You can storyboard. Just put a pen or pencil in your hand and move it along the paper.

First drafts, I have learned, survive when created on computers. They don’t spontaneously compost or spew terrible writing. Some people have been doing first drafts on computers their whole lives, never really experiencing the long-windedness of the endless pen, and they’re fine. They’re writers. They’re real.

But for those of us who remember writing with a pen on paper, we can go back. For those of us who have actual memories of sitting and writing by candlelight or lamp with a glass of wine, whiskey, or tea, it’s different than a first draft with the screen looking back, flashing the words in our faces.

You know the feeling. When you write by hand, the paper embraces the words. The paper holds them differently than the screen’s tentative grasp. It makes the words permanent, harder to let go of. It gives them a home.

Computers are wonders and I am writing on one now, but early, I sat with a pen and paper and time stopped. I can retype handwritten words onto my computer, but they will remain where I first left them.

I still swear by pen and paper. Sometimes I don’t swear loud enough, but when I do, I scream this “I LOVE YOU ABE LINCOLN. I BROUGHT MY QUILL!”