My daughter found an old typewriter - yes, I said typewriter - in our basement.
She dusted off the old turquoise case.
I pressed the hard plastic keys. The metal letters struck the black ribbon, and, as the white paper revealed the slightly bruised paper, I fell in love with the sound of the carriage return and the feeling of my fingers getting a pretty intense workout.
The ancient machine worked.
This beauty was my mother's typewriter. It was the typewriter on which I wrote my very first stories - the typewriter that helped me earn a Young Author award as a small child, that later assisted me in completing job applications and that then helped me write a winning scholarship essay.
The smell of the paper after it comes out of the platen and is released by the paper bail is almost intoxicating. The sound of the keys stretching to reach the blank paper and strike it with just enough force to leave the perfect mark drowns out almost every other noise.
As I compare the experience to sitting here with my laptop on my couch, I believe there must have been something quite soothing about the peace an author had so many decades ago, when he would sit in solitude - probably forced because the sound of a typewriter clicking away at full-speed actually is deafening!
I am thankful that I can use the delete key and that I can save and change my work as I please. The computer has increased my productivity and allowed for creative independence. I can rework a piece with very little effort on my part. I can cut and paste, strike and add paragraphs and correct word choice - all with the stealthy touch of a very soft keystroke.
But, there is something about that typewriter. And my daughter feels it, too. So, for now, we are writing, er, typing letters to each other - the old fashioned way. And, it feels so good to sit where it all began:)
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