The Typewriter

In the early 1990s, when I was kid, I either wrote my stories out long-hand or I used the family typewriter.

The typewriter sat in the back corner of the basement and faced a blank wall. I used to sit there for hours, my small fingers clicking away at the keyboard. I loved the sound of the daisywheel switching, hitting each letter against the paper. I liked rolling each individual piece of paper through the roller, watching the page move left as my words filled in to the right.

Back then, I didn't have much of an inner editor. I was a kid, willing to experiment with my words and rarely doubted myself. I was just writing, for me, myself, and I. But, if I had an inner editor back then, it had more difficulty expressing itself. With a typewriter, I couldn't just go back to an earlier paragraph and switch a couple words out, or add more sentences. I was forced to continue writing, and only erase the last few letters I wrote.

This is how I wrote my Julie & Beth story series, inspired completely by my avid reading of the Nancy Drew novels. With the typewriter, I liked the way my mystery stories laid on the page, always in a "Courier" font.

We eventually got a new-fangled computer, and my sisters and I were loathe to use anything else. The typewriter started collecting dust in the hall closet.

Years later, while in high school, I wanted the typewriter back, so I could roll a sheet of paper through it, watch my words unfold, and feel like I had to keep going... I always had that sense with a typewriter. Add a page. Roll it down an inch or so - and go.

Unfortunately, the typewriter barely worked. Certain letters failed to press ink onto the page - the letter 'e' being the worst victim of all. I tinkered with it, wanting to achieve that sense of drive I had with the typewriter when I was a kid, but I'm no mechanic. Nothing I did helped.

Now, in my mid-20s, there still seems to be something magical about that typewriter, and I don't care if I'm being nostalgic and corny - I loved that typewriter!

When you first started writing was there something that kept you writing and inspired? What was it? Why do you think it affected your writing? If it can be bought, would you buy it?

There's typewriters selling on eBay for $129. I'm pretty tempted.

Photo source: http://new.idsa.org/webmodules/articles/anmviewer.asp?a=264&z=62

Third-Grade Lessons

When I was a kid, I didn't always like to go outside during recess. Dorky from an early age, I know.

I begged my teachers, asking to stay inside and write. More often than not, my teachers of my earlier years - first and second grade - insisted I go out each and every day; you know, fresh air, physical activity, and all that jazz.

But in the third grade, my teacher - Mrs. Engle - let me spend a couple days inside to write. The stories I wrote generally revolved around ghosts. My best one, that I still keep in a pocket folder decorated in pink, purple, and green, is about a girl who discovers that a ghost lives in one of her books. Then there were the days that I didn't know what to write about; to solve this dilemma, I marched over to the classroom's library, chose an encyclopedia at random, flipped open the heavy book, and wrote a quick story about whatever entry I happened to land on. The most difficult one, I remember, was about the "sun".

I was scribbling one of these stories, on looseleaf lined paper, when Mrs. Engle approached me one day. She sat down in one of the small chairs and huddled over the table where I patiently worked.

"How would you like to start a writing group?" she asked.

I was totally game. The idea of sharing stories and working together with my friends to create stories sounded like fun. It was optional for everyone in my class, and, surprisingly to me, a handful of other kids were willing to forgo their Friday recess to join in. It was the first time I was able to share my passion for writing, and I have Mrs. Engle to thank. I owe her even more thanks than that though.

Back then, adults often asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I honestly answered, "a famous novelist," and I'd often get a smirk or a laugh, or something else that equally showed they didn't take that dream seriously.

But Mrs. Engle did. She was the first - and one of the few elementary school teachers of mine - who believed I could do something with my writing.

After elementary school, I continued to write, but my interests grew and expanded, and I slowly found myself writing less often. By the time I reached high school, I wasn't writing anything (save for in my diary).

I started volunteer tutoring at some of the local elementary schools, and when I was 16, I was taken back to my old school. One day, after finishing up some English tutoring with a student, I was roaming the halls with a friend, as we reminisced about our years there, when we ran into Mrs. Engle.

The first question that passed her lips was: "Are you still writing?"

Ashamed, I told her I wasn't.

She asked why, and a conversation ensued about writing every day and working towards my goals of one day writing a novel. Even when you feel like you don't have anything to write about, she told me, sit down and try - like I used to do with that encyclopedia. You can't fulfill your dreams of writing, of becoming a novelist, if you don't try.

Not too long after this conversation, I set to work on my first novel. While this novel never got published, it did get written when I was sixteen years old. Plus, it taught me how to go about writing a novel, from creating outlines to sending queries out to agents, and I truly believe that I wouldn't have learned any of this had it not been for the encouragement of my third-grade teacher.

My Writerly Beginnings

Yesterday's blog post got me thinking about why I write, and in turn, when I started to write, so here begins a series of posts about just that.

I honestly can't remember ever not writing.

Ever since I was little, I loved telling, and getting people's attention through, stories. There's a home video of me when I was about seven or eight, where I'm sitting out on the back porch and my dad's filming everything going on. My sister, K, and her friends are sliding down the slip n' slide on the mini hill in our backyard, as I lean against the back railing, my chin resting on my crossed arms, taking everything in from up above. My dad turns the camera on me and says, "Lizzie, tell me a story," and I'm more than happy to oblige.

I take a seat, my skirt flouncing out. Within seconds, I launch into a story that I pull off the top of my head. If I remember correctly, in the video, I hold my pointer finger to my chin, momentarily pondering where my story should start.

I'm talking so quietly that you can't hear much of what I'm saying, but I'm clearly invested in every word I spout about "a white house with blue trim." My sister's best friend - let's call her K2, if only because she has the same name as my sister. K2 flits through the peripheral vision of the camera in her blue bathing suit, but I don't glance her way once, as I keep talking and gesturing widely.

Watching the video when I'm older, I notice what I didn't back then. As I'm telling the story, K2 asks, "Liz, are you going to eat?"

I keep talking.

K2 keeps entering the frame, coming closer to me, continuously asking the question - but I keep telling my story, oblivious to everything else.

My gaze flits away from the camera's lens, as I envision what happens next. Nothing else exists. So, when K2 runs over to me, suddenly shouting, "Liz, ARE YOU GOING TO EAT?" I flinch and an utter look of surprise crosses my face.

I whisper, "No," and K2 walks away, finally satisfied.

And I continue on with my story, as if nothing had happened.