My muse has arrived and it wants to know, ‘Where’s the Scotch?’

We’re laughing over a story Chris is sharing about a recent trip to Turkey, picking at bread, and waiting for the main course. “What’s new with your writing?” Dean asks. Let’s face it; that’s a question only a friend would ask. So I tell them about this blog.

From across the table their expressions are open and expectant, “Well, are you having fun?”

“I don’t know yet, it’s not live, we’re still setting up the theme.” The Merlot is fruity and smooth on my tongue. “It’s daunting, you know, the idea of putting something out there everyday,” I hear insecurity and a hint of hysteria in my laugh and I change the topic.

Hours later, I’ve returned home to take the trip upstairs to the loft. Something that doesn’t belong draws my eye and, before my brain has time to catch up with my mouth, I scream, “Oh, my God!” Leaning in for a closer look I confirm that what I think I see is real:

Bill has climbed the stairs and stands behind me.

“How old is it?” I ask.

“It’s from the 1920’s.”

An Underwood typewriter from the jazz age has come to live on my desk and I am mesmerized by it. “Does it work?”

“Yes.”

Well-used and ever patient, it waits for me to make up my mind. Tentatively, I hit a key. The Underwood makes that long ago sound and there’s nothing tentative about it. It springs into action with a declaration, the Underwood strikes, pounds, clacks and clatters; it’s a subversive sound — it’s the sound of revolution. It must weigh at least 30 lbs. and it would never recognize the fainthearted tap, tap, of my pc’s keyboard as a distant relative. The Underwood requires a bottle of scotch, a full ashtray and a smoky room. My green tea will look laughable at its side.

What’s its story? Waking to the sound of rain I imagine who may have owned it: F. Scott Fitzgerald, a reporter in a newsroom, a secretary with shoes that pinched and red lacquered fingers that flew across its keys. Perhaps it has always lived in San Francisco…..but, then again, perhaps it has migrated here by steamship or train compartment. I will never know where it has been or who its previous owners were, but, I will know it has a story that will always be longer than mine.

My muse has arrived. Thank you, Bill.