8/24/11 Is handwritten really better?

After reading the letter a few times over, both out loud, and silently from behind my computer screen at work while on a break from the monotanous task at hand, I decided that I should just sit on it for a bit, re-write it, by hand, which I started yesterday and now spans over four pages of a college ruled notepad, not very pretty I know. But, dainty stationary pages would be rediculous, and probably force me to write less.
I should marinate on it I have been told by more than one friend and at random times. I was also advised by a close friend not to allow Colette to read my blog, which makes complete sense, and not for the reason that he gave, but for the sheer fact that I don't want to make the hair on the back of her neck stand to attention. Although, receiving a letter from her long-lost daughter is spine chilling enough.
Also, the presence of the word stalker might be a bit scary for her. I know, and people who know me know, that it's said partially in jest, but she doesn't know my dry sense of humor.
By the time I have it finalized, she will have been long since dead, probably from old age, and will be nothing more to me than a faint black and white picture and a faceless name.
I really need to get on it. This weekend I don't see any time to work on the letter. It kind of freaks me out for lack of a better description. It makes me nervous and shakey to write the letter, and ultimately, I'm left feeling completely vulnerable and isolated, stressed out.
So in my frustration coupled with the fact that I have to take care of a four year old by myself everyday of my life, which I love doing, but need some occasional help with, for my sanity, I crack open a beer to relieve some tension.
Does that do the trick? No. It just makes me less inclined to work on the letter, causes me stumble across words, thereby decreasing productivity, and leaves me one day further from meeting the woman who gave birth to me all those years ago.
Thirty five is a big number when you are thinking in terms of years, not in days, not in minutes, certainly not in money. Add a thousand to that number and you will know what it has been like for me, probably for most adoptees, those who have been blessed with abundant opportunities and surrounded by loving and caring people, like I have. Obviously, I can't speak for anyone else, as we are all shaped by our experiences, but I do NOT think we are defined by them by any means. that's a totally different subject that I won't even skim at this point.
I need to make finishing the letter a priority and dropping it in the mail a forseeable future.
The word "dropping" sounds so informal, so plain and everyday. In my mind, this moment should be recorded, and available for me to relive, and possibly share with others who care enough. I think I will get out the videocamera that Dad bought when Sarah was born, dust off the cobwebs it may have amassed while hanging lonely and lifeless on my bedroom doorknob in it's carry case.
I might become one of those people who carries around a little voice recorder, and busts it out at strange times, drawing strange looks from strangers. I'll look like a lawyer, a doctor, a deep thinker, maybe a philosopher who thinks scattered and forgets easily. Either way.
I spoke with a new friend of mine who is a film student about possibly making a documentary. He asked me questions containing words like purpose and impact. I think the purpose would be fairly evident, and the impact, explosive. The documentary would lure any human being who has a heart for others, anyone who would be interested in affairs of the heart, not just people who are adopted or may be considering adoption, those who have already adopted. You can't make this stuff up. It's real and in your face. It oozes passion and still suffocates, leaving a taste for more in the mouths of all who want to know.
This is what I'm thinking about today.
After all, I will be going to the beach the week of Labor Day, and will be down in that neck of the woods. And what's the point in waiting any longer? But then, on the other hand, I've waited this long, what's a little bit more time?