He gave me a typewriter

With clackity*clack keys

And a chime that rings

When I’ve gone too far

And need to



This sort of typing

Feels more like writing

Fingers flexed

Ink on the page

Uneven, imperfect

And glorious.


Strike the keys

Stamp each stroke

Hard or soft

It’s up to you

The writer, the typist.


He gave me a typewriter

With ribbons blackened

And linkages yellowed–

All things considered…

I suppose he really is a

Decent sort of fellow.


Wednesday Wisdom: Ernest Hemingway

Celebrated my birthday this last weekend…

He pulled out the box from a hiding place behind the sofa,

and my heart skipped a beat–I’ve seen old typewriter boxes before.

I opened the mysterious box, and this was the paper

queued up in the 1950s Remington typewriter.

IMG_3723Isn’t it an absolute beauty? He knows me so well! ¬†ūüôā


And after having typed on this marvelously noisy beast,

(at odd hours, much to the annoyance and amusement of my family)

I now better understand the beauty of this quote by Ernest Hemingway:


“There is nothing to writing.¬†

All you do is sit down at a¬†typewriter and bleed.” ¬†