Typing Life

[Wrote yesterday but forgot to post. I should edit it but I'm not going to. :)]

Yesh! :D I have my new keyboard and it’s sooo tiny. :) Possibly even a little shorter than my laptop keyboard and all non letter buttons are compacted together. It’s wonderful. I have to work a bit to get used to it- my happy go lucky back space button is a whole row up from where it is on the other two keyboards which is something that has caught me in this paragraph a total of four times and my shift buttons are only half size so I have to be careful not to hit the next one over. Lol, all in all though it’s a nifty piece of hardware I already cherish.

If you’re a new reader and you’re wondering why I plan on ‘wasting’ a whole blog post about my brand new keyboard then you clearly haven’t read much here. Some writers have a favorite pen, a preferred kind of paper or notebook, some have a special seat or song they need to get their muse to come forth.

Me- I have a keyboard.

Some writers have told me there’s nothing like having a pen and paper and as a writer I should embrace it more. I tend to agree on some small level but only as I won’t always have a computer at all times and I need to have some meek skill for reading my own handwriting but in the end I derive more pleasure from keys. I love the sound they make, the feel beneath my fingertips and how I usually have a better chance at keeping up with my thoughts.

Mostly, this past year or so, I love how I don’t get the huge headache from reading what I write. :) With and without my glasses on.

Thinking back, when I was six and living in one of the foster homes my bio parents had given me a children’s type writer. A lightweight plastic thing that you plugged into the wall. It was red and white. I don’t remember asking for it though I may have- I was an early reader, or it’s possibly my bio parents were hoping I’d send them letters they could use as legible evidence against ‘the system.’

A few years later, my first reprieve from foster care, when I’d gone to live with my bio parent, uncle, and grandfather my parent let me play with her big electric typewriter. A huge thig that had to weigh more than my eight year old body. For the next two years, roughly, I’d spend most of my time sitting in front of it on a milk crate clicking away the hours word by word.

I wrote some small poems and a story- which later nearly got me kicked out of school but that’s a much longer tale. We moved to Michigan around my tenths birthday, moving into our very first apartment on our own. No one else living with us so all the junk that had been in storage since the incidents that led to foster care came about could were taken out and put in their respective places including a PC- Windows 95 and all.

I’d used computers at school but never at home. Now I used them in both places, constantly working on my stories. It was years later when I was 13/14 that I actually managed to have one not get deleted long enough to reach 100 pages. It was printed instantly and not read by another soul for one more year. I moved into my adoptive family’s home where they let me type all the time on their computer.

Then I went back into foster care and all was lost. Everything I wrote there was instantly trashed. I didn’t begin writing again till after I’d escaped and my Hubby bought me my very own laptop, gently, quietly urging me to pick up the craft once again.

Long story short- I love typing. It’s so much a part of my life. I can measure whole spans of my existence by the typing I’ve done.

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