Probably the scariest thing for a writer apart from that first glance of a blank paper in overt expectancy, is the very act of being in the throes of a creative frenzy when you hurriedly scan over the past sentence and is abruptly stopped short due to the petty mistakes overly excited fingers tend to fumble on. Then, to only not be able to correct them once you move onto the next line. That is the very essence of typing on a typewriter.
It’s likely that all – if I may so obnoxiously speak on behalf – writers out there dream to have their own typewriter. It definitely adds onto the quaint charm of an cup of old coffee, the rhythmic ding. I get it, I’m like that too, that’s why when I discovered my sister and her boyfriend had bought this cackling duck her very own electronic typewriter this Christmas, she was delirious. So I began typing.
It is everything you would imagine. Now I am only speaking to those that that did not live to catch the last glimpse of type writer frenzy; it is just as cacophonous as you have tried not to remember, that fidgeting urge when you’ve got to back space and erase some letters, so you wait not so patiently for that indescribable high when you get to slam down on the keyboards again and the machine whirrs in combustion trying to keep up – then beep beep – that’s it, it’s the end of the line, so you’ve got to hit enter before the primitive machine can keep going. Sort of frustrating.
But I love it.
That’s it, just that while typing in admiration I had never taken the time to look back on the first couple of sentences I had typed out. The thing is, the old format of the chunky computer keyboards are rather sensitive, comparable to my current functioning laptop, so that any slip of the out of line pinky (as is always the case) will cause the ever regrettable misspelled word. That, plus the only way to erase such a mistake is to backtrack and erase all the precedent words to that. I can’t do that. My palpitating writer’s maniac heart won’t be able to take it.
So at the end of the day, when I had finished typing out another short excerpt of word purge, namingly the previous post I had on here, I declined to read it over, for fear that I know for very sure there are several sentences that began without the ink of the first letter making it’s permanent marking so that you will read something that says, ” enerous in picking the scenery and making the woman, my mother, in the photos look well.” That there will also be several sentences where an extra letter, an extra space between words had been permitted because a certain writer could not be bother to keep erasing and retyping atop the faded words.
I sigh in the irony that the piece written was precisely about the old way printed photography was of such precious scarcity, that there was no such thing as editing or cropping or re-doing. That was it. Somehow my dad made it work. Just the other day my mother showed me some old photos of a skinny young man, a mouth full of a smile; had he any idea of what he was going to do in his life time? No, he had no idea in that photo and it looked so very precious because of that, and for so many other serendipitous things of that nature. This way I could look more fondly upon my newly typed out piece and see that this was perhaps the reason why writers wrote so agonizingly, for truly words written aloud can never be taken back in this measure. So dear, do make sure to write ever so tenderly.
I smile at that.