For too many years now I’ve said I would start writing. With so many mediums to choose from, the perfect one always seemed flawed and the best I could manage over the last four years would be a stockpile of one page journals, spiral bound notebooks, Word documents, and even the type writer never seemed to lose its function. But no matter the quantity of choices, the perfect one I knew was still out there.
My deep love with history and its characters finally lead me to believe I was the next Abigail Adams, and I just knew the Jeffersonian approach–the old feather pen and paper bound with twine–would be my decades worth of diaries and inspirations I would write. In falling in love with this idea of an antiquated approach to passing down life’s happenings, I really believed any day I would pick up that pen. Holding out for just the right burst of motivation, short of needing to read the Declaration of Independence, I kept putting it off and let the fantasy continue. I had this romantic idea of my writings being kept locked away in a dusty old trunk in the attic where my grandchildren would stumble upon them during a curious exploration of all things old and exciting behind glass mirrors and feather boas.
It’s not an altogether terrible fantasy if I do say so myself. It just lacked some serious motivation on my part, though honestly I’d much rather be undiscovered by the media but be made real through my writings by my future grandchildren.
So you can see my imagination for once actually hindered my ability to write more than it helped. In the end, or lets call it the beginning, writing has to be fluid for the writer and the reality is that the romantic task of writing by hand is terribly slow and filled with error, as I have realized in just the tedium of thank you notes that typically leave me blurry eyed and headachy. Least I mention here that there was more dust collecting on my writing desk then up in any attic the kids would ever discover.
So here I sit, an aspiring writer present in the future and finally succumbing to it. Yes, I have to finally admit it’s not in me to write by hand. With some sadness but lots of motivation, I have officially acquiesced to the technological masses and let a blogging website be my Wuthering Heights. Though certainly not feeling like the next Emily Bronte behind this Macbook, I can at least say I am finally productive. My heirs, yes, may wonder if the void was a four year writer’s block or the imposition of the Big Grief. But maybe, just maybe, I can blame it on a low supply of kerosene lamps and calligraphy pens.
Welcome to my Blog!!!
J. L. Buckley