Some evenings I sit with every intention of writing. The birds chirp outside as the smell of fresh rain wafts in through my bedroom window. I wait, and the words never come. Perhaps it is the idea of a computer that bothers me. Though it allows one to be more prolific—one’s hand can only move so fast—it does not have the romance of a large, loopy script scrawled on thick card stock. The clicking of the keys does not lend itself to the musical ear, nor does the blue glow from the screen do much for the aesthetic appeal of the pastime. I picture the ladies of old who would sit down at their writing desk, dip their quills in the thick dark ink pot and begin a brilliant letter with no other intention than to invite their neighbor to dinner. How formal life was then. We’ve done away with formality in exchange for productivity. A few hundred years ago, a woman would not dream of going down for breakfast until she had been laced into her corset. Even a few decades ago, leaving the house without a proper hat was a major faux pas. Today we go to the grocery store in pajamas and Ugg boots. Though I appreciate the opportunities time has granted for a woman such as myself, I also long for the days when life was simpler...and a little more romantic.