What Your Teacher Wasn’t Suppose to Read
I’ve read some of these before, little notes written in margins or on scraps found inside book bindings. I can relate right now to these medieval scribes. See if you can figure out why.
Complaints by Medieval Scribes
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New parchment, bad ink; I say nothing more.
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This page has not been very slowly written.
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The parchment is hairy. The ink is thin.
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Thank God it will soon be dark.
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Oh, my hand.
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Now I’ve written the whole thing. For Christ’s sake, give me a drink.
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Writing is excessive drudgery. It crooks your back, it dims your sight, it twists your stomach and your sides.
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St. Patrick from Armagh, deliver me from writing.
And my favorite:
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As the harbor is welcome to the sailor, so is the last line to the scribe.
I’m a long way from the last line right now.
How I Would Rewrite These Scribe Complaints
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New version of Word crashing. I say nothing more.
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This page HAS been very slowly written.
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Laptop battery is dead. The charge is slow.
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Oh God, why did you create electricity?
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Oh, my hand. (And wrists, and shoulders, and elbows.)
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I can’t seem to write the whole thing. Give me a drink!
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Writing is excessive drudgery. It crooks your back, it dims your sight, it twists your stomach and your sides. (I couldn’t improve on this one!)
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Oh shopping girlfriend, save me from writing.
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As the hot tub is welcome to sore muscles, so is the typing of The End to the novelist.
I feel a kinship to these ancient scribes, although my complaints are nearly as charming.
