I think too much.
I think too fast.
And I love it (usually).
As a writer, I love how the thoughts in my head sort en route to my fingertips. It amazes me how reading back, I see the thoughts with clarity, the jumble that was inside turned into beauty.
Writing by hand is for leisure. Calm, rolling tides of thought. A pace under control enough to compensate for my semi-ambidextrous handwriting (having a lack of dominant hand opens many doors, but does not lend to pretty script).
Typing is for the flurry, the hurricane of thought – the torrential downpour of words that is my normal state of being. Brain vomit.
When the storm comes, it is exhilarating. Better than dancing, diving to the bottom of a pool or a sugar rush. I find it wonderful that I can sort through the words later, that my fingers can keep up, lagging just behind my brain.
It took time to get here – to learn to type properly, then to adapt it to my needs. “I don’t have time for the shift key,” I told my friends the other day. We were discussing stenography machines and short hand. I am envious of something even faster than words-per-minute on a keyboard. I can type quickly, but to keep up with a good train of thought I have to take shortcuts. I don’t capitalize. I don’t delete errors. I don’t worry about spelling. I leave big sections of blabber that get me to the point. And often in the middle of a paragraph of fiction I can find a grocery list or personal reminder.
It works though. It gets the good guts out there is always time to edit later. In the moment I just need to try to keep up with the speed of thought.