True To Type

I was talking to my writer friend Laurie on the phone this morning and she asked me if I knew about the latest craze in collectibles.  I told her I guess I hadn’t, but I was pretty sure  it wasn’t books.  She  agreed that it wasn’t, but said that it was something very surprising.  Yesterday morning she’d been flipping through the TV channels and chanced on a segment about the typewriter craze that has young people conducting something called “Type-Ins”  in coffee shops all over the country. Having never observed such an event , my mind immediately  rummaged through my 60’s box and pulled out a Love-In  replete with, beads, Baez, reefer --  and typewriters. 

“The night, they drove old Dixie down, and all the people were singing! They sang ………”

Claaaaaaaaaaaack, clackety-clack, clack, clack, clack!

Groovy! Except I’m a  day late and a dollar short  on this one, as the New York Times reported this story last year which means it could be “soooooooo 2011” by now. But I just did a  quick Google search which proved it to be hanging in there, though not quite as I’d envisioned. Type-ins are serious events with speed  competitions involved -- there's nothing mellow-yellow about them. I bring them up for several reasons not the least of which is the solace of knowing  that even if books totally fall out of favor odds are they’ll  spring back  in another generation or two. Not that that  will do most of US any good, but it’s comforting to at least  be reminded that all things old are new again.

But the real reason I bring them up is that today is D-Day – Drag-Out-the-Novel-I-Began-Two-Years-Ago  Day so I can bring a manuscript with NEW writing to next month’s writers’ group.  Contrary to what you’ve observed here about my writers’ group, writers’ groups are not really about presents, pinot grigio, Darwin Cake and Christmas ferns. Those thing are supposed to be treats, little PAY-OFFS  for showing up faithfully with a manuscript every single month, pages  clutched in sweaty hands prepared to read and hear the verdict from your fellow writers. Our group  used to function that way too, but then Nancy landed  a newspaper editorship and then later a PR job which requires writing and I became a bookseller who wrote on the side and then, later yet,  an obsessed bookseller who never writes. Meanwhile the other two members, Laurie and Dandi,  remained dedicated authors  who have finally decided to stop giving me and Nancy a pass.  At one time this blog counted as writing , but no longer. The blog is fine, but the blog is NOT a novel, however much I add dialogue, description,  and other writerly embellishments to impress them. They’re over it.

So today I absolutely, positively  HAVE TO seriously read the completed  four or five chapters (I forget which it is) of the novel  tentatively known as Genre Friction and see what they sound like. And then remind myself that the whole thing is a draft, just a draft, and move forward with a new chapter by the first week in MARCH.  The thing is I’m afraid to look. I really am. You’d think  we were talking about a huge black, hairy spider hiding in a corner of the basement I’m so freaked.  Is it any wonder I’ve  started engaging in magical thinking?
In case you’ve never tried it  here’s how magical thinking  works: if I still had my old manual typewriter  it would be okay. Better than okay. I won prizes on that typewriter. I typed better on it than I do on a computer. And the sound! Oh, the sound! I roared down that  keyboard using just the middle fingers of both hands like Wonder Woman on speed.  In fact, I worked beside the ad guy at the newspaper office for a year and a half before he realized I didn’t even know HOW to type. That typewriter was me and I was it – a perfect symbiotic relationship.

And this is TRUE. It is! So why does Eric feel obliged to remind me  that every time I made a mistake on the typewriter there was White-Out involved?  And that when  enough White-out splattered on the page I had to retype the entire thing.  And revision.  Revision was torture.  Revision was the equivalent of having your fingernails ripped out by the Inquisition. Then there was the fact that I couldn’t even pick UP that clunky old black behemoth of a  Remington manual (bet I could now though). And the fact that sometimes its platen held pages every bit as blank and accusing as any computer screen

True, all true! But stop already!

I get it.

The hairy black metaphorical  spider stays in the basement because to suck him up with the central vac I'd really have to look at him. And the typewriter looks good because it’s gone. And I am writing about typewriters so I don’t have to read -- much less write -- the novel.