Short Stories


I can write poems that whisk you away into the stars. I can write stories that whisk you into shoes of the characters you read about. I can think of stanzas, lines before they go down on the page. But what can I not do? I can not write, well. Every time my pen or pencil hits the page it turns into a flurry of bizarre lines, barely legible symbols and awkward placed dots. No matter how much I slow down and turn my patience into the page, it still looks unpleasing.

You’d think someone who writes a lot would have a solid foundation in the simple calligraphy of the English language. But instead I get ahead of myself when I write and focus on the developing the story or poem rather than how my penmanship looks. I lose my self on the page as my pen does the lettering. It is exhilarating.

But the problem occurs when I want to share my work as people look at my page with confusion and questioning eyes. They look at every dot, every line, every little misplaced pencil stroke with disgust. They don’t read what is on the page, they only look at the mistakes and problems with my handwriting. The handwriting says something about me though: I don’t slow down, I don’t lose concentration on my train of thought and I’m hardworking.

One of these days though, I’ll reteach myself to write. Write every single character with a perfect swirl, a perfect stroke and a perfect spacing. Until that day I’ll still look down at my page and be proud of what I wrote in between the lines rather than the way it looks written.