It was not a quill. I would have liked one, though. It was a ballpoint. If I was fortunate enough to find one, it was ideally a barrel action retractable roller ballpoint, heavy with a chunky grip and an ink flow level more than drip and less than ooze.
And the paper, well, it was slightly less important. Anything to hold ink was acceptable.
I spent hours and hours and hours and hours writing. I did not write for any other purpose but to share my soul with a recycled tree. I wrote to sort my emotions out or to paralyze them on a page. I did not know then that I was training myself to be a disgruntled writer want-to-be.
I AM a writer, and I am not. Writing is my everything. But, I’ve neglected my passion for so, so many years now.
I’ve had the occasional moments compelled to jot something down. Overall, however, I’ve been neglectful.
I am torn about being upset about this. The reason I was neglectful is noble and worthy: I raised a family. I took the jobs I needed to in order to put priority one square on the heads of three fantastic young people.
Still, I’m upset that I left my best to shrivel in the corner.
I’m working on nursing it back to beyond its glory days. My writing will resume. It will be better for the experience. It will thrive. Soon.