I was chatting with someone who still uses a typewriter, and I asked him what the appeal was. He answered that it was the physicality of it, the way a typewriter stamped out the words and cemented them into the real world.
I don’t get it. I have a typewriter, I love the way it sounds, and smells, and feels, and I love popping out a letter or a bad poem to a friend on it. I do love the physical aspect of the words, and the immediate, unchangeable thoughts.
But fiction? Something that I would use the phrase “honing my craft” to refer to? Ignoring how silly that sounds, it kinda means something to me. Crafting something, in my mind, means working on it. Refining it. Coming back to it, at least once or twice.
You can’t finish a pillow without parking the needle for a while. (Okay, that’s an even worse phrase. Obviously my blog is not a part of my craft. This is the place I just throw a few things out onto the wall and see if they stick. A place where mixing metaphors is only publicly embarrassing, not career-ending.) I love editing, and I feel like it’s an essential part of making sure the real-world presence of my thoughts and stories matches their appearance in my mind.
Which is to say, I should be editing right now. Not philosophizing. Or watching Carp-Hunters.