I find my penmanship these days amusing. As I write in a carelessly cursive manner, I cannot help but remember the various influences that shaped such scribble: my father's illegible handwriting, the numerous depictions of chicken-feet scratches of great writers in so many a movie, my attempts to imitate female handwriting during my high school days (in order to keep myself incognito as I write insults on the blackboard -- and yes, I did succeed!), and finally, the discipline imposed on me by my erstwhile work as a high school teacher. Yes, in those days I considered myself a genius who had the right to write illegibly: God knows how my poor readers managed to cope up with the flurry of ideas in hieroglyphic writing. But now that I've been sobered of the view, I keep my "marks of a genius" to myself, but I still find it so satisfying that even when I am stuck in what I write, just an appreciative glimpse at how I've just written the menacing thought and I'm back on track.
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