My hands are falling asleep as I type on the phone. Strange, this new way of writing. Effective, too. I am 13,000 words into a play, typed in the Notes app, formatted in Pages, and exported as a PDF into iBooks. First act done; second act in progress.
Is it any good? It's not bad. The sensation of creation on a tiny virtual keyboard makes complete sense, in hindsight. I'm using two or three digits, max, to type. After the stroke I wondered if I would ever regain typing ease. This way is easier for me. The rabbit hole opens and I take a tumble, left thumb and right index finger working in tandem to capture some of the stuff I'm falling through.
The heels of my hands grow numb, and pretty soon my little fingers and the backs of my hands also lose feeling. As long as my thumb and index finger work I have the chance to write, so for eight, 10, 12 hours at a clip I am one with the thing that's supposed to be a phone but serves mostly as a typewriter right now. And a jukebox, to add another antiquated machine to the mix. Give me Notes and give me Spotify and I can write round the clock.
Every now and then I'll put a prompt on the wall and think about cadence and flow. Then I'll smile at the irony. My writing is sharper than ever. The inspiration for that writing comes from a cold, silent place. The colder that world gets, the faster I type. When the world was warm and sunny there was no need to write. Happiness muted me. I didn't miss writing. Not one bit.
Now I write to honor the inspiration and remember the days of happiness. I always wanted to write this way. I just didn't know what I've have to lose first.