There’s a pleasure in a paper whose weight is so thirsty that is soaks up ink almost before it can leave the pen. The color seems to grow by magic across the page and, fully committed to the weave, stays even if I accidentally drag the side of my left hand over the freshly inked place.

Smears are a hazard of a left-handed person. I have spent my whole life being so very careful with how I ink my words for others to see. And still, more often than not, I am left with a messy, unreadable blur as the ink streaks across the page and my hand. You just can’t be careful enough. One moment of relaxation into the actual text can lead to erasure.

While thirsty paper is harder to work with, it owns the ink. Its weight is a reassurance under my fingers that it can handle anything I put down.  I don’t have to fear that is will be returned to me in illegible splotches, censor-block streaks. I relax. I revel in the miracle of my thoughts blooming across the page in beauty and grace.