My ability to write poetry easily, not even to write it well, just to put words to paper and get the images they painted in my head to someplace they could come to life, got tripped up my senior year of high school when I ran out of notebooks and switched to using my computer or phone when I wanted to write.
Luddite has two main meanings. One refers to the bands of English workers who destroyed machinery, especially in cotton and woolen mills, that they believed were threatening their jobs in the second decade of the nineteenth century.
The second was the one that had my friends snickering in my direction when it came up in our Western Civilization class senior year of high school: a person opposed to increased industrialization or new technology.
It was a fitting comparison for me, who hated my smartphone, hated doing anything on a computer, and got frustrated with using any technology that came across my path. It’s not a surprise that the roadblock happened, but I didn’t even make the connection until my big gifted me with a beautiful journal. The second my pen hit the paper I felt the familiar ease, the unmistakable rush that I always got writing when I was younger.
So, maybe I am a bit of a Luddite. I filled so many notebooks and journals in the past decade with nearly illegible poems, that even I sometimes struggle to read years later. But I wouldn’t switch back to computer writing for anything.
It’s like muscle memory; the second the pen was back in my hand, the journal opened in front of me with fresh pages, I felt inspired. This is how I’ve always written, and coming back to it felt like coming home. And, maybe, at the end of the day, I am a creature of habit who hates change.