Why I Write

I remember writing in my 20s. Hashed out, stoned, drunk exhibitionist pieces of something. Writing honestly felt like a chore then, although no one knew it but me. I had all the trappings of a “writer.” The collection of manual typewriters scattered throughout my messy apartment. The 1942 Royal was my favorite. Its keys demanded punching fingers. The return gave such satisfaction when swished – shining metal and the roller clicking as if to say, “Hey! You finished a line. Bloody good job!” There was also a collection of smoking paraphernalia. There was a lime green with gold and white accented table lighter, ashtray and cigarette holder, circa 1960 gifted to me by my grandmother when she learned I was a smoker. It was, of course, deemed unladylike that I was a Camel girl but I could tell by her sideways grin she secretly admired my spunk. I also had an assortment of vintage hats. I wore the black one from the 40s that was squared off and tall the most, often decorated with real flowers. And let’s not forget the Meerschaum pipe I learned to hang from my mouth puffing while typing at the Royal. 

That I never actually wrote anything of consequence or ever enjoyed one single moment of writing must be noted. I wrote because it looked good. 

And now I write because it feels good. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece and it was published anonymously. That 20-something girl at the Royal in her vintage hat couldn’t stand for no credit. I didn’t want the attention.