I bought a typewritter. I bought a typewritter because I decided a typewritter would propel me to write. Push me to literary genius, or at least shake me out of the wordless waste I was in. So I figured out a way to waste time by hunting for the right typewritter on ebay.
I wanted something that would make me feel as if words would just spring to the page once I pulled a piece of paper through the thing. I convinced myself this was what I needed in order to write. So I hunted typewritters on ebay. You know; typerwritters are not all that inexpensive. And shipping, well, that could get up there. After all, it’s this hunk of metal with little moving parts, and it should be shipped carefully. So I wasted time, instead of words. I wasted time hunting down the perfect specimen. Nothing obscenely expensive, within the budget I had, and cute. It had to be cute, of course. Who could type on an ugly machine? Blue typewritters must be the most beloved of typewritters, because they were few and far between. And always a bit more than the others. And then there were the black examples. Large machines that you couldn’t imagine as portable, well, not by today’s standards of portable, anyway. Eventually, I found one. A darling small grey Royal. The Royals seemed to be a brand that held up. I hunted it and successfully won the auction.
Then I realized I would need ribbon. Becauase, you know, words don’t just appear on a screen from your touch with a typewritter. There’s a medium that goes with these hunking pieces of metal. Ribbon. So I had to basically guess at what sort of ribbon this new prize of mine would need, to thrust me into loquaciousness. Which meant, of course, another round of research and hunting. I bought ribbon I still wasn’t even sure about. And in the machine it looked loose to me. But it had appeared to be the best option. So.
I had a typewritter, the typewritter and ribbon in it. What I didn’t have was words. I sat there staring at the damn thing. Willing words to push forth from my fingers into this machine, which dinged at the end of the line, to let you know to manually advance to the next line. All I wanted to hear was a succession of dings. The sound of progression down a page. The sound of a writer. Instead, deafening silence. An overwhelming presence of simply nothing. Not a word, not a whisp of an idea. Deafening absence of anything worthwhile to say. To punch into existence on this perfect little machine I had found, hunted, with its imperfect ribbon. Sitting there, judging me in its lack of propper use. So I put the damn thing away; put the cover on it, put it in a cabinet. I put it away and picked up the latest issue of Vogue.