“It lied there, waiting for me. Mostly because I am intimidated by it. I have been so used to the digital age that I feel like this writing contraption, which can function even without telephone cables or electricity, is somehow organic. Like it’s just one tissue away from being alive, from walking or talking or judging me for what I will be typing down. It can be feral, with its teeth-like fiberglass keys, and its fingers of thin metal individually ramming on the paper to form a word or a verse or a story. Then, of course, the noise that it creates: It’s not so much of an encouraging tapping, but a commanding clapping, like that of a drill sergeant pushing you to go on, ‘write better! *clack* write BETTER! *clack* WRITE BETTER!’ for every push of the keys. And the typewriter’s pressuring and taunting didn’t seem to have ended there. I learned that it has become choosy of my subject.” ~ Lilith “Old Love,” December 30, 2010
It seems like every time I go into a “debilitating” writer’s block, I turn to this old typewriter. I have revived it in 2010, used it for a few months after that, then abandoned it for reasons I cannot remember.
—And then came the long dry spell of not writing anything—
And then, two weeks ago, after I have decided to go back to this “craft,” I reverted to this ancient machine. From there I was able to produce page after page of stories, encoding them afterwards on my laptop. There is hope for me. I can write again.