English: Smith Premier Typewriter Co. of Syrac...
English: Smith Premier Typewriter Co. of Syracuse, New York – 1905 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Coffee, strong coffee. Sending vibrations, shockwaves, directly to her brain, which in turn set her fingers flying across the keys of her maroon Smith-Corona, each push resulting in clattering contact with the page, ink as black as the coffee against virginal paper. Five pages now. Not stopping until it was done. Another sip of coffee, more inspiration seizing hold of her. Always better to compose on a typewriter, tapping into the creative power of her literary ancestors, a direct lineage from the heroic bards of the past down to her, alone at her desk but wrapped in words, words, words. 


One man’s trash, right? I mean, it had actually been trash—sometimes I’m out walking my puppy and see something by the curb. So we were out that night, right, and there was the edge, some keys, peeking out. To Dynamo’s dismay, I steadied her leash and grabbed it. A typewriter! An old manual one! I had been looking for one for years but just had never had one come into my life. I could see that it would need some love—the K and V keys were jammed down, and there was no ribbon or anything, but still. Still.

The First Word

She knew she had stories to tell. She knew there were cobweb-wrapped people in the dark and mysterious attic of her mind, waiting to be freed. But how could she lead them out into the sunlight? She stared at the virginal white page rolled in her baby blue typewriter and had no idea what key to strike to begin. The words were waiting within her fingertips but she could not release them. The people were as silent as ghosts, offering no assistance. The first word would unlock the others, would drop open the whole colorful scroll. But what was it?

Writer’s Block

She stared at the crisp snow-white sheet of paper, sitting there waiting expectantly in the typewriter, taunting her. She took a long sip of black coffee. She massaged her temples. Just think, just think, just think. There has to be something worth writing about. If there isn’t anything worth writing about in this world make a world up. She looked out the window. The sun was shining and the sky was full of clouds puffy as cotton balls. This was no time to be sitting inside torturing herself. She stared at the paper again. Something. There had to be something.