It’s hard to place the feeling of popping words onto page, watching the dirty lexis splash onto the screen. We can’t hold pens any more, fingers stretch and bind to paint pixels, they’ve unfurled after hundreds and hundreds of years. We’ve changed and now it’s even harder to find a connection to your favourite author, now that we can’t imagine the weighty strain of actually. Putting. Ink. To. Paper. Or the sweat of an unblemished bastard of a notepad. They’re all handily in one place, typed and never scrawled;
you can’t read my writing anyway.