The first word processor I'd ever seen was introduced to our grade three class. We were told we had to learn to type faster than we could hand write, and as I searched for the right letters, small hands stretched wide across a great expanse of keys upon keys, I wondered how anyone could possibly type faster than they could write on this clunking thing.
Today I type faster than I hand write. And my handwriting is atrocious.
Right now, I'm preparing for a month-long trip wherein electricity will be guarded and cherished as if it were a pile of precious kittens. Read: the laptop shall be used sparingly. I haven't written steadily with a pen on paper since I kept a diary with a lock on it. My grocery lists look like the cat wrote them. I sometimes question the worth of my opposable thumbs.
Enter graph paper, a friend of anyone who was brought up to type rather than hand write. Those neat little squares beg to be filled with perfectly legible handwriting. Also: yellow paper! I will sing the praises of these Rollbahn notebooks for all eternity. Or until I get back to the city to suck up as much electricity as I possibly can.
Along with the Rollbahns, I've armed myself with a couple Delfonics ballpoints—so sleek, so slidey—and some irresistible nautical clips. I count on being thoroughly inspired and struck by bolts of amazingness, since blank notebooks and full pens bring a certain ring of threat—er, promise, to a writer. Anchors aweigh!