I stayed up until about three in the morning, last night, working on my project for NaNoWriMo. Since I was still nursing a migraine hangover for the majority of the day, I ended up minimizing my time on the computer
by doing my writing by hand.
As I wrote, I remembered how lovely the physical act of writing is. The elegant sweep of the pen followed by a clean line of ink has a certain romance to it. Even when the resulting handwriting is as juvenile as mine is, I still find the act enchanting.
I also enjoyed the play of shadows on the empty, white page, and the intricate motion executed by the hand manipulating the pen. I've noticed the loveliness in that movement years ago, but I've never really talked about it.
Typing is somewhat hypnotic, as well, especially when the typist is trained in touch-typing. It's a different sort of aesthetic, though. Typing is relatively new, where writing has been with us for centuries in various shapes and forms.
Like clothing making and cooking, writing is one of those ancient arts often taken for advantage today. Perhaps part of why I enjoy the act so much is because of that connection to generations past.