Hand Writing

It's an entirely different feeling to write by hand versus writing on a keyboard. You feel the words when you write by hand, you slow down and actually look at the page, not letting your fingers go on autopilot while your eyes scan what you wrote before, and your mind plans what comes next. I wrote most of my NaNoWriMo novel on the Alphasmart so getting back to writing by hand is a challenge.

December 9--Marie-Philippe Coupin de la Couperin, Napoleon holding a figure of Victory, plaque commemorating the Battle of Eylau. From where she sat at the table in Great-aunt Mame's dining room Tally stared at the round picture of a naked man holding a tiny angel with a feather quill and a wreath. Was he supposed to be some sort of grown-up Santa? That's what she thought of when wreaths were around, but the stuff the naked guy was sitting on didn't look like toys. There were a few balls and some drums but the rest of it was cannons and spears and armor. Oh. Those were probably cannonballs; that made more sense. But going out to fight naked didn't seem like a very good idea. That guy should probably put on the armor laying around on there, she thought, and he should definitely cover up his, well, his you-know-what. Boys always protected that part like it was most valuable. She couldn't really see his peter so she raised herself up a bit and craned her neck trying to get a better look. "What are you looking at, Tally?" Mom said, and Great-aunt Mame clucked like an old chicken. "Natalia is probably trying to get a look at old Bonaparte's member," she said. Then she leaned over toward Tally and whispered, "I hear it wasn't much to look at anyway, my dear." Tally sat puzzled in the swirl of breath smelling of old lady and afternoon sherry thinking "He had a membership, like to the Y? Why would I want to see it?" It was a very long lunch.

And the blizzard? We've got it; 12" of snow, 30 mile an hour gusts. I've got a snow day. Where's my sled?
--Barbara