For the record, to those reading on RSS who might otherwise miss it, Ive edited the main Snailr Project post below to take the email address out and to change the tenses so that it sounds less like its something that COULD possibly happen and more like something that IS happening, next week. Because I have enough addresses now I think, and I dont want to get to a point where I let people down, because then they would be sad, and then I would be sad.
I have suddenly been struck with performance anxiety. I have suddenly been struck by performance anxiety about the postcard project, not because of a worry that I wont know what to write
Just because I hadnt considered the fact that Im not sure I even KNOW how to write anymore.
Having realised that with any more addresses I wouldnt have any cards any more, I pulled up all the emails Ive received, and started addressing them in advance so I know how many internatational stamps to buy and how many domestic and all that jazz, I paused with my pencil hovering above postcard one and realised a thing.
I have horrible handwriting.
Or rather, I used to. I had horrible handwriting in school, I developed some highly mannered hand in sixth form college, a completely different set of letters and lines when I was working in the craft room in Iona, but since then, my handwriting has disintegrated into two forms:
a) The tiny tiny neat alphabet I use to write plans in my little moleskine diary and
b) The wild unreadable scrawl that covers the big paper desk pad under my keyboard, used when Im taking notes during conference calls or writing things that I want to refer to quickly while in lots of different programs.
One of these is fine. The other is not. It is like someone has given a pen to a small child, and the small child, who cannot be arsed with it, has given it to their pet weasel, who has proceeded to hold it like a enamored bride and dance a foxtrot with it all over the page.
It is not handwriting. It is inkdrizzling.
I have no solution to this as yet – I have nothing but the sense of alarm that I really, really dont know what my handwriting is like anymore, and the discovery that whatever it IS like, it isnt really fit for human consumption.
That I should run into a brainhole in the week approaching this project and this trip wasnt unexpected: that the brainhole is made out of my inabilty to DO THE THING I LEARNT TO DO WHEN I WAS THREE, however, is not.
First lesson, then: I need to remember what my handwriting looks like before next week.
Or hire a scribe.