River Brown

Well, it came to me like this. I was hanging about the office when a former specialist asked if “anyone wanted a typewriter?” He was cleaning out his office prior to the school renovation.

Yes, it’s a project to restore, but so is my writing life. At the end of a school year, having done many extra professional development seminars, and even taken two weeks off for a ~ gasp ~ vacation, the writing life is a bit like this old Corona. There’s inherent style but not functional. The ribbon is dried. I could make all kinds of telling analogies, but the point is, this solid edifice to real writing is plopped on my desk. I take it as a sign.

I am also pleased that I have spared the typewriter from being hauled off to a second hand store or such where it would have been purchased to tear its keys off to make yuppy jewelry. I had just been looking at some in a boutique in a local fashionable shopping area.

Odd, but I just found an old pack of Corrasable typing paper, too.

My sense of composing is that sometimes the bigger things I want to write run around in the atmosphere awhile, gather objects and quotes, and work their way into my more lowly conscious mind. Something is forming. If nothing else, at least in summer I can think more on my own thoughts rather than drive my creativity into other people’s formats.

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