1,2,3, Go…

I said I was going to start writing again.

I had fantasies of getting up before the sun and making my coffee…

Sitting at my desk and feverishly typing away with my glasses perched on the edge of my nose, (even though I don’t need them to read, but rather, to drive and watch the television). I pictured myself surrounded by piles of paper, frantically rereading and crossing out lines, dog earring corners of pages as I shuffle them back into sloppy stacks in rows on the floor. And eventually the piles would become chapters and the chapters, books.

It’s 2024 and I’m still adjusting to being an analog girl in a digital world.

I’ve wanted a typewriter for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I dreamed of clacking away on my own little machine, churning out mystery novels or whatever weird stories that my imagination and I could come up with. Instead, I was afforded access to the family desktop computer and a black MS DOS screen. It was the early 90’s. It worked for what I needed at the time, but it still wasn’t the fantasy I had conjured up in my head. Typewriters were official. Anyone could use a computer. Only writers used typewriters. Well, writers and secretaries.

I decided if I was going to get back on this horse, I ought to find an appropriate appliance.

I settled for a bluetooth keyboard that connects to my iPad and slightly resembles a typewriter. A modern hybrid, I guess. I’m trying my best to integrate. After all, I really did want that Jetsons future, and I imagine this keyboard is a pretty good representation of what our typewriters would’ve turned into anyhow. But alas, no stacks of paper. At least not until it’s time to battle the printer, which is an entirely separate animal that I’m not sure I have the time or patience to discuss here (Hewlett-Packard, we need to talk).

Training Wheels & Water Wings

It's like riding a bike. Or whatever people say. You don't really forget how. You just convince yourself that you have forgotten. But it's all still in there. I write essays in my head all the time. Poems, songs, stories. I keep them to myself. They stay inside and I keep them safe and there's no getting them dirty or damaged. My thoughts and feelings cannot confuse or prompt concerns if they are kept close. They cannot reveal truths or make others feel feelings and that's how it seems like it should be. But then I remember that I'm only human and these thoughts and feelings turn to poison if they're held too tight and they begin to seep, and drip, and soak into everything until all of a sudden I'm drenched and sinking. So maybe I will share tiny bits. I will chip off little pieces that feel ready to be removed. And maybe you will like it, and maybe you will not. I guess we'll see.