Type writer

I found the old box in my grandma's attic. I opened it and saw the books stacked on top of one another. I sat myself comfortably on the creaky old floor that most would go crazy about these days and grabbed one up gently. What was I looking for; nothing more than unknown nostalgia. I did the first thing I always do when I opened the book; I smelled the pages. I realize it sounds incredibly weird. I have often felt if books were people I would fit the profile of perverted maniac, having already sat in front of a jury trying to justify the reason. Some would not understand but I would plead with the twelve strangers because these are words. What lies inside when you open the dusty cover is a world of endless possibilities; a creative canvas that leads imagination.

These books were different because inside lied virgin letters and fresh ink. These words were untouched by every type and involved only human hands. Before the typewriter, the computer or the ability to put words together on a screen before it went to a publisher. Ink, paper, imagination and dedication; that is the history these stories held. The same history I wanted to bring back into a world of limitless craft.

Lately, I have been criticized. I have an idea and 80,000 words but no one wants to see them unless they have been downloaded and presented in an attachment that I've just e-mailed or printed. I want my story to be fresh. Most know what it is like to walk into a shop and smell the donuts. We look at the ones displayed and finally decide on the sprinkles on the outside or the cream inside. Some are ok with taking one in the case, others will wait for a fresh one to be made; this is the difference between ink and fonts.

There were no fonts found in these stories. Decades old letters on yellow paper. From China to Germany; the history of paper is phenomenal. It is much easier to construct thoughts and continue an idea when you are seeing it and feeling it. To imagine, my ancestors their stories right here, in my lap encouraging my narrative to continue just as they left off.

I want to bring it back. I want to put my pen to paper and have it enjoyed by eons and eons of many over the years. I love to write in ink as I watch my wrist fall in rhythm with my words.

These dusty old books; their value is priceless just like the stories they tell. I have heard these stories since I was a little girl. My mother heard these stories, my grandmother and decades before.

As I reach in for the last book I feel a chill of encouragement. I am not sure why this one had me feeling more enthusiastic than the last; until I opened it and began reading. These were not long stories, but short treasures. As I flipped through I found a note in the middle of the book where time and words had just stopped. I unfolded the paper and begin to read.

"To the one who finds this letter, you will also see unfinished letters. It is sad to me such a story could be left undone. In this year, 1955 others are finding it much easier to maneuver script. The typewriter and printing press has found its way into the hearts of those all around us sometimes leaving my thoughts anguished. How much more will we progress? What else will come along to replace our brains intuitively; making the ease a greater giant than the effort? Is this what we have to look forward too; replacement. It's been a while I know, but I also know these stories and the history of who wrote them. This one needs to be finished. I am not a writer and could never pretend to be one because I have embellished and embraced within the words that have always put me to sleep at night; what puts my children to sleep at night. I know someday, someone will pick up this book that can. Hopefully, they will have special ink and a big tickle of thought to razz the berries of both reader and listener. Gain your chain readers. Put these stories in a book store or discount house, whatever you may call your discount stores or libraries when you read this. Language changes as much as the process it is written; hopefully the idea these stories should stay fresh in ink and wrapped in binding on paper will press on; without the machine as its mechanism. Anything else, would be wumgush."

I was grining ear to ear. I am not sure who wrote this letter, but I was sure that language had changed. I loved the slang and took only a second to research what it meant. I picked up my phone where technology was most useful and convenient today and enjoyed the history of slang words and what they meant.

I put the books away, all except one. The unfinished letters; I would finish them. I would write them. I couldn't wait to get started on something that should have never been finished.

How fitting a letter from 1955. A letter expressing how much things had changed at that moment in time. The author claimed not to be a writer but a lover of language. Someone who enjoyed reading the story and passing it on. They saw the ink on the paper and it excited them. Nothing excited me more and I know that writing my thoughts down on paper and putting them in an order that could be used for informative research or entertainment allows me to keep up a lost form. No matter what technology enables, our abilities have been crafted in history; a history that was once untouched by fonts and established by fresh ink.

Writing is my life, the ink is my oxygen. I will breathe it in for my words and out with my thoughts. Someone will appreciate it, someone will buy it and this story along with my many others will be told for decades. Years of change; where the type of ink remains the same.