The life of a spastic writer…

I’ve touched on this a couple of times before, but I’ll say it again because it gets me typing: I am a writer. And I think I have decided that writers, all writers, are permanently spastic and somewhat unorganized. I mean, really. I sit on a computer and type all day. There are a million distractions! Even if I manage to find the appropriate environment in which to write, there’s Facebook and email and Yahoo news and such right at my fingertips! And I know that there are programs that block things, but I just don’t like the idea of being forced off of something on my own computer. I like controlling my own computer (Writers are also, it seems, control freaks on some level. I mean, we use words to control the reality we put on paper, don’t we?).

This is why I want a working typewriter. A straight up, no-nonsense word-processor. It won’t play bootlegged reruns of Friends. It won’t let me update my Facebook status. I can just type. I think I’d like that.

Now, I have two typewriters. They’re in my room at home because I don’t have a place for them at school. One’s a cast iron behemoth I found in the barn of an old antique store, and I love it. It’s so completely not a computer and I love it. The other is a later version, made of the same awkward taupe plastic early computers seem to be made of. This one is probably more practically fixable, but something about the old, black Royal tugs at me.

To write without distractions. How lovely would that be?

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