Typing One-Handed

Is a biyotch.

My hand still hurts, but such is life.

I started reading "Letters to a Young Poet" by Rainer Maria Rilke today. It's really good, but I'm wondering if it is something that would have made more of an impact in my impressionable high school/college years.

Or maybe I can still be a Young Poet at heart?

One of the pieces of news is that I got into law school. But the question remains whether I should go. A lawyer friend asked me today if I was really sure. He said it's an anxiety-producing field.

Really. Like I need more anxiety.

Anyway, it feels good to write, even if all that is coming out is blurt.

And if you can keep a secret: I am typing with my left hand.

Bad Ginny.

Tell you what, let me just throw up a kid pic to cut this thing short.

To Create

What does it mean to write, when anyone with access to a keyboard or a PDA can pound out every thought that passes through their brain?

What does it mean to photograph, if a good digital camera with a 100 different style settings opens artistic opportunities up to 3-year-olds?

Who paints when an elephant's work fetches thousands of dollars at auction?

Who knits when socks are 6 for $5 at the discount store?

Why do we create, when everyone can be a creator?

I've been away from the blog for awhile. It was hard, lots to talk about but no way to get it out. Then it was something I thought about but couldn't put any effort into.

Now, I've been sidelined from knitting with a bum tendon in my left hand, and I need to find some other kind of outlet. I've been reading more books lately, and the itch to write just finally needed to be scratched.

There's all kinds of news, and the guilt that I have the Lion hasn't been documented as much as Slim is going to lay pretty heavy on me for the rest of my life. Sorry, kid, in advance of your years of therapy.

But I'll just start with this, and we'll see where it goes from here.