If I could just find the right writing equipment, I’m sure everything would be fine. It’s not my talent that’s in question. It’s just that computers are too temporary. The words and worlds disappear as quickly as they’re breathed into life with the single hit of the delete button. It’s the ‘I can do better button.’ But all it does is destroy. It never makes anything. The use of silence in music is essential, so is the use of space in painting or photography, a sculptor can chisel away just the right amount. But a blank page is no use at all. Sometimes I get the feeling that maybe all I’m really trying to do when I press delete is get catharsis for every mistake I ever made. You don’t get a do-over in life but I can press delete until my finger bleeds.
And then there’s my typewriter, o favourite object, my Olivetti. So perfect to look at, to gaze at in wonderment, imagining every great story I will ever write on it. I think of the clink-clank of the keys, those metal wands hitting the roller to mark the paper indelibly with luscious, magical poetry. I smile at my clever, green friend every morning. I look, I smile, I imagine and I never, ever touch it. It’s not that I don’t want to, and it’s not that my talent’s in question, it’s just an arduous affair, typing on a typewriter. And I’m the kind of writer that spits and spills onto the page for an hour, or a half hour and then runs out of juice. It would take me two minutes to write a single sentence on that lovely, antiquated box of joy. No good, no good.
The thing is, I’m left handed and pens have always been the enemy. What cruel, sadistic teacher makes a six year old write with a nib pen when they’re left handed and then screams at them for smudging the page? I swear if I look closely I can still see the blue ink stain running up the side of my little finger along the edge of my palm to the wrist joint. Sometimes a good carpenter should blame their tools and it’s not for my lack of talent. Instinctively, I developed a peculiar habit; to bend my wrist around so that my fingers practically touched the inside of my forearm, and positioned my elbow high above the paper, until my pen wrote at the angle of a right hand. Believe me I’ve tried, but I’ve never been able to unlearn it and it makes writing a tiring and uncomfortable experience. The hand muscles cramp within half an hour, much less if I’m writing quickly, and I have to drop the pen. I give a good old shake at the wrists but it’s performative at best.
I would buy a dictaphone and hire a secretary but (and it’s not for lack of talent) it’s just for lack of money.
My Dumb Life 