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The first time I noticed I was merely the operator of the typewriter and that the
machine itself was the real brains happened while sitting late at night trying to figure
out just where that old muse of mine had crept off to this time.
All was going ever so well when I felt him slip out the back door to places un-
known. At the very same the typewriter vibrated with a sort of self-contained humor of its
own. When I reached places in my writing that I just didn’t know where it was leading, the
machine would simply put me on auto-pilot and direct my fingers as to what keys and rhythm
would be appropriate. Sometimes in the more exciting parts my fingers would dance effortlessly
around the keys and I knew at these times that no mistakes were being put down on paper. At
other times I could sense the damn machine thinking and actually feeling myself becoming short of
patience as I waited for my fingers to once again become the messengers of stories that were not of
my making.
Sometimes my mind would not agree with the subject matter but I found myself helpless to do
the slightest thing to alter the process. On the other hand there were occasions when I could
scarcely wait to see how the stories would end. It wasn’t long before I started questioning my
own sanity as from where these driving forces might be coming. Needless to say these types of
thoughts weren’t very self-assuring images to dwell on considering my already confused state of
mind. I mean really. How ridiculous to even think for one moment that one could be possessed by
something that was nothing more than ink, metal, plastic and ribbon.
Then it started that I could not even come up with a solitary idea until I sat down in front of that
cursed typewriter, took a deep breath, and watched as my fingers set off on their journey. It was
like being separated from my physical body and looking down upon this person bent over his ma-
chine with his fingers wildly racing around the keys as if entranced by some supernatural force.
The typewriter had experienced many fingers and ideas over the years, drew from all the
different styles and personalities, and combined them in such a way as to come up with a cease-
less supply of information in much the same way a computer assimilates knowledge and records
it on its harddrive. The stories I found myself transcribing dealt with a variety of subjects from the
distant past to far into the future with every type of character and situation included along the way.
In my wildest dreams I could never hope to even come close to creating the magnificent scenarios
that the old key punching device could seemingly and consistently have no trouble whatsoever in
spitting out near perfect manuscripts in nothing more than the time it took my fingers to race
around those old worn out keys.
Eventually I questioned myself on more than one occasion as to where this would eventually
lead me as I earnestly started worrying as to my health for there was many a night that I was not
even permitted to sleep. My fingers would ache for a rest and I was becoming more and more
resentful for the work I was being forced to do. I was beyond being a critic and no longer had the
slightest interest in content or motive. All I remember is that I hated it. I hated it with a passion
and could not wait until the sound of that impetus tapping to cease and I once again had control of
my fingers and senses.
Then it started in the middle of the night. I would be asleep and a twitching sensation would
come from somewhere in my subconscious becoming stronger and stronger until I awoke to
realize my fingers were typing on their own demanding me to return to the apparatus to perform
their work.. After a period of time I learned to sleep in the chair while my fingers did their bidding
for this unknown and totally controlling force that I found myself under and powerless to escape.
The noise and intensity of the keys hitting the roller put me in a state of bliss whereas I could
simply close my eyes and actually be in those places that I was writing about disregarding the
barriers of time and space. Soon these images became my reality and nothing else existed or
mattered for me. Sure, I still ate and did those things absolutely necessary to sustain life in this
human body, but I went about them absent minded because all I really cared or thought about was
getting back to the essence of wherever my beloved typewriter wanted to take me next. I was be-
coming obsessed with these dream-like worlds having found them quite comforting. I now found
myself increasingly grateful that I had finally found such a great mentor to allow me to be a part of
such a wonderful and unique process. I knew then I would never again be able to be without the
direction and guidance I was receiving from such a gifted entity. I never experienced such content
and inner-peace as when I was in that state of bliss and never wished for it to come to an end.
How I had changed from the beginning of our relationship when I resented what was happening to
me to now looking upon this machine as one of the greatest and gifted storytellers of all time.
Then one day the spell was over as quickly as it had begun. I remember sitting there at my desk
as my fingers glided around the keys and I became aware of something knocking in the distance.
I could not conceive from where it could be coming and as it grew in intensity I was once again
drawn back into my typing room with the reality of someone beckoning me to the door.
I cautiously made my way to the door and as I opened it who should appear but my long lost
muse whom immediately ran past me and took his seat at the typing desk. You can imagine how
horrified I was to see him back and demanded him to leave at once. I told him I no longer had
need of him in my new and exciting life but he just stubbornly sat there grinning knowing quite
well I had no choice but to join him so we could return to our little rut of non-inspiring, mediocre
writing.
So that is why I have decided to give up on the writing process. My muse is just no fun
anymore. All he does is just there and wait for me to come up with terrific and inspiring topics
on a consistent basis. How I’d love to be able to choke him and kick him back out the door so I
could simply return to my beloved, enchanted typewriter and once again to know and feel the
effortless intelligence of true story telling.
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