I don’t miss the crumpling. There was a time when I would sit down here to write and there wasn’t a computer in front of me but a typewriter. Every bad idea, false start or misspelled word would cause me to yank the page from the machine and crumple it. The waste basket next to my chair would soon overflow with an impressive pile of crumples.
Every time I see a small clearing in the woods, I feel a little guilty. Those poor trees died because of my lack of talent. It wouldn’t be so bad if a crumple could be planted in the ground and a new tree would sprout up.
But would they grow
with words already on them? I can
imagine lengthy sentences running up and down along the bark. Poorly thought-out ideas, out on a limb. Leaves dotted with punctuation. The Crumple Forest would surely be a sight.
Lumberjacks would not be injured by chainsaws but receive only paper cuts. Hiking trails would grow pre-marked. Grade school kids on field trips could learn not to run on sentences.
ZC
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