That is why they say a writer must travel outdoors, feel things, feel the nature, people. Sitting indoor with television set on is not going to do any good, with your eyes fixed at laptop screen. It is borrowed writing. Not like a writer scribing with a felt-tip pen, or fountain pen like the old classic days. Or not even like typing on a typewriter.
Neither can I say that I work on those antique old fashioned portable typewriters.
I have succumbed to cerebral computer age. I use a word-processor not a typewriter, <don’t get me wrong but these phrases were from Woody Allen’s everyone says…>
I don’t have the joy of having a simple room in Paris or in New York, as Woody Allen has, neither do I studied at castle changed into a high school in Ireland as James Joyce had. But then I am not paranoid as Allen is.
It will be worth giving it a try writing no typing on a typewriter. I remember there is one back somewhere at my home in Varanasi, probably gathering dust. Alight Mr. typewriter, your savior is on his way. Lets rise to the occasion and play Lux Aeterna.
Envision a writer bored by typing on his Hewlett Packard keyboard, decides to give up technology. He hollers around aimlessly searching, something that will bring writer in him at peace. And voila there comes this dust-packed, once-proud-of-its-white hue, typewriter. Yes a typewriter. That will be some sort of climax. Writer has a hunch that this is what is missing from his writing, and not the silver-white-and-aluminum of high end mac-air. The writer was confused whether he will write as blasphemous and hold-no-bars blog on his mac as Hank Moody does, or he will sit in a warm room behind French blinds, with sunshine playing jigsaw at Italian tiled marbles. The room is decorated in a minimally, filled with antique furniture. He sits on a large brown wooden imperial chair cushioned with soft leather, and a magnificent mahogany table. There is a pile of handmade white paper on his left, he inserts one page into the typewriter, keys in four lines, slumps back and is lost in the reminiscence of old days. He quietly sips his green tea from a cup, (I could have made it classy with a wine glass, but it is still noon here). The aroma fills his nose, its rejuvenating and nourishing. Tea is just warm enough for his taste buds to perfectly savor the fine taste. He gazes at the empty dark green fields through the …
Dude I am sorry, but you Mr centipede lurking near my mattress, you got to go. WHAMMM !!
So yes he studies the maze of sunlight, feels amazed, his attention hovers to the warmth of sun on his face. This all is too exotic for him, he surrenders to the warmth and simplicity around him, it is too much to take. He slowly closes his eyelids, stark darkness fills his mind, and his burning eyes are relaxed. He is falling deep into an abyss, into the unknown. He has been trying to decipher the dark of close eyelids. He slowly stops acknowledging the croak of crow on his courtyard mango tree, and whish of auto-rickshaw engine. He is falling into afternoon siesta.
His feet were cold, from the air from ceiling fan, he wishes for a sheet to cover, preferably a white one. A particular noisy engine of car, breaks his quiescence.
Dude concentrate on the writer in antique room. Which writer? What antique room? He has lost him. A loud beep of his cellphone does the rest. Yes I am the one who has succumbed to technology. The other part of writer chuckles silently.
“Really ? You are the one who is four month away from a masters degree in electrical engineering, with specialization in communication. LOL. You say you have just succumbed. Get a better word Mr. writer.”