I can’t read my own handwriting.

“Karen,” you say, “what are all those little yellow squares with handwriting on them?”

“Handwriting I have blurred a number of times in photoshop, Internets,” I reply. “I do not want the contents of those squares to be discernible! Because I am plotting a book.”

“Oh, Karen,” you sigh. “There are these things called computers, perhaps you have heard of them?”

“Well, Internets,” I say, “I think the method of presentation for this imaginary conversation is adequate evidence that I have, yes.”

“Then why?” you ask. “You have been using Scrivener for a couple of years now. You love Scrivener! There is a whole thing there with little electronic notecards that, moreover, you will not accidentally skid on as you attempt to traverse your bedroom floor.”

“Aha!” I say triumphantly. “Internets, you have inadvertently hit upon it. For while I am indeed deeply in love with Scrivener, I am ever intrigued by the new and the rare. And do you have any idea how strange it is for me to have this much of my bedroom floor readily available for the physical arrangement and rearrangement of little squares?”

“Karen,” you say. “That is very sad. We cannot even.”

“New book, Internets,” I say. “New plot, which I am transcribing to Scrivener versions of these cards, as we imaginarily speak. The only right way to write a book is the way you write it.”

“Well,” you concede. “Just don’t write the whole thing longhand.”

“Ahahahaha Internets,” I say. “It is to make the funny jokes. Not a chance.”

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