“The writer.” Those two words conjure up various images for different people. For some it’s a cluttered studio with tall windows and soft diffused light. For others piles of manuscripts litter the floor and books burden every shelf. For me the vision is of an oversized desk which faces large windows framing an expansive view of wild country.
A computer sits in the middle of the smooth surface. Its screen glows with a document half filled by text, the cursor blinks in assumed anticipation. Wadded up papers, full of thoughts gone awry, are scattered on the rug. Half-empty coffee cups stand sentinel here and there. The wall clock begins to tick in syncopation with the neon cursor. The writer, hunched over the keyboard, is dressed casually. His forehead rests in his hands, fingers splayed at the temples, thinking.
My reality, although I now have the coveted study replete with desk and view, is very different. First, I can’t type, as many of you have been so kind to point out. To be more specific, I type with relative speed, but with so many inaccuracies that a two year old who uses one finger would be more proficient.
Next, for whatever reason, I can’t be creative when I’m sedentary. I walk in circles on the patio and pace back and forth speaking into the recorder. I find that microcassette tapes, although outdated technology, serve my purpose well. They allow me to dictate as I drive and on occasion my story-line is punctuated by a vehement curse as someone cuts me off at ninety miles-per-hour.
The micro-recorder has become a bridge between my big paw/little key syndrome and the frenetic lifestyle I lead. Which reminds me, it’s time to finish up this blog and get it to my assistant who can truly type. End of tape!
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