Of all of the things in her home, this was the most sacred item she possessed. It was worth more to her than all of the faded baby pictures that belonged to friends, piles of old holiday cards, or programs her children had performed in long ago and far away.
The typewriter is where she learned how to be in touch with herself and her imagination.
Sure, she had a computer now. But it wasn't the same.
The old manual typewriter was uncompromising and exacting.
Each strike of the key was solid and firm beneath her fingers.
Each strike of a key brought things into clearer focus.
Each strike of the key released something in her soul that needed to be free.
The computer with its programs was too easy. There was no need to contemplate each word or phrase. If she didn't like it, she could delete some or all of it and there was no proof of what she had done.
The computer didn't feel permanent. It felt temporary and easily replaceable.
Maybe perfection is overrated.
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