A bunch of people have asked me lately how my handwriting is so miniature and uncharacteristically precise. This is because I write on . Exclusively, if I can help it.
Recall Lolita; ol’ Humbert Hum spends his afternoons milking the venom from his fangs in a fey little leather bound diary. He assumes the Big Dove too witless to make any attempt at deciphering these ruinous revelations, the stuff which fills the exhausted silence she neurotically mistakes for love. And yet, Lo! The Fat Haze has it in her. A Bad Accident soon follows. Hum, feckless greedy tick that he is, was not writing on .
“College ruled” paper should be left for the animals. Wild minds need structure or else they’re all over the page. Must each letter be a mile high, visible to every wandering eye vying for a peek at your engine? That’s always infuriated me. My mother prefers gridded paper, but because I am a dumbell, my eyes cannot stay on a linear path. Chad Doane has brilliantly solved this. Every three horizontal lines on the grid are a slightly bolder blue. It’s a beautiful thing.
No one’s throwing themselves in front of a speeding car for me, my friends. They can’t read a goddamn thing I write.
It’s also great for drawing and mapping out plans to better your future which you will never execute, but will frequently pause amongst the ruins to admire the order and ease they had so elegantly promised on paper.
(I’m only allowed Nabokov in small doses.)
