In which Demi misses the pen and paper

I think I've figured out why I'm such a lazy blogger. Aside from the fact that I am... well, lazy. And why I find it so much more difficult to write - whether it's a story, an essay or a boring blog post - when staring at this little bright box perched on my lap.

I miss writing. Real writing. Using a pen and paper. Smudged ink, mis-spellings and odd grammar in haste that don't get underlined in a squiggly red line for being a freakin' fragment, crossing out, re-reading, filling up notebooks.

Why do we think that typing into a little box with neat, printed, perfect font can replicate that?

I'm filled with the urge to drive to Paperchase or WHSmiths and stock up on notebooks. Ring-bound, preferrably (I have a tendency of ripping what I've written out at a later date, or in the light of day, when I realise it was actually pretty crap) although my fingers are itching for a leatherbound, traditional notebook. A moleskin, or whatever they're called.

I need to get back into it before I hit Uni in September, or I'll never get my spark and love for writing and reading back.

I hate how it feels like a job. A chore. Something I have to do. Why the hell do I feel like I have to read Jane Eyre otherwise I'll be a failure as an English student? Why the hell should I feel obligated to love the classics when they actually bore me crazy?? Why can't I just get back to reading a book simply because I like the sound of it? Hell, when was the last time I read something simple. Harry Potter, of all things, has become so crazily appealing since I finished school.

I blame the film I watched tonight. Girl, Interrupted. Maybe we are all crazy. Who knows.

xo