So there I was. I'd finally learned to write. My wrists ached constantly and my hair fell in curtains over my face, making the words lie hid in their own secret cave. But I could write. That's what I thought, at least, till my Mum, wise lady that she is, decided to intervene just before I moved on to senior school. It seems, by learning to write so late, I'd missed all those nice instructions on how to hold a pencil. I'd learned to make my letters okay, but I held the implement in fiercely clenched fist, twisted at a crazy angle to the page. Now Mum said I had to do it right. She even sent a note into school saying, "Please excuse Sheila's writing; I'm teaching her to hold a pen."
Have you ever thought about the muscles you use to keep that pen from sliding over the page and onto the floor? Okay, have you ever used chopsticks? If you didn't use them from childhood (I didn't), then imagine, if you will, growing up using a spoon and fork and being told suddenly the only implement allowed would be a long stick of wood. Maneuvering chopsticks really wasn't so bad when I grew up because it felt just like learning at age ten to use a pencil.
Luckily the words still stayed in my head, even though they were so reluctant to land on the page. Maybe that's why I never learned keep a notebook of ideas; I store them in memory. And maybe that's why I'm so bad at remembering, 'cause I've used all the space up on story-lines.