Recently, I’ve been doing a lot of postings of encouragement to other writers on Instagram. I think one of the reasons is because part of me is really nervous about receiving my editor’s notes on my latest manuscript. I go from “Why isn’t she finished? Where is her email?!” to “Oh, good, I don’t have her comments yet and I don’t have to begin the tedious process of editing.”
I know that once I begin the process, I will be in another place in time. I will forget where I put things (more often), forget the wet towels in the dryer, not return phone calls, postpone going full-mask to the grocery store, etc.
But I will press on, do what needs to be done, then beg forgiveness to those I have ignored.
Admission: I save things. I hoard. Everything that “could” be thrown away, I picture having another purpose, that there still might be some life left hidden within that seemingly useless object.
This 1950s typewriter belonged to my mom. It’s green plastic cover has a large slit. I won’t throw that away either.
I remember my mother typing on this monster, but what she typed remains a mystery. Addresses on letters, perhaps. My older sister used it for school work.
I, too, typed on this (30 pound?) machine – a bit of poetry, a collaborative “screenplay” entitled It Comes From the Heart when I was around fourteen. (It’s awful, but I still have that, too). Each finger-plunk was a major workout and heaven forbid if I ran out of white-out liquid.
Now I have a real, live, computer with easy keyboard action. I don’t need that old typewriter anymore. Am I getting rid of it? Hell, no.
(Besides, it’s too heavy to carry downstairs and out the door.)