like a dog to get you
Somebody please slap me.
Over the past month, I've been having this recurring thought and every time it bloody recurs, I dwell a little longer on it. Last week it culminated in Googling during court and experiencing a little jolt of excitement in my chest when I found after a while that I could actually purchase the damned things.
I want a typewriter.
Not one of those that allow you to type the whole sentence and then print it out. Not an electric one. The proper huge monster murder weapon kind with the keys you have to stab and see the steel prong wham up and the sound is like a shot and the carriage return is this raw grind with the rewarding ting of the bell. Now that I think about it, I think my grandmother had one in India. Which is prolly why I have such a vivid idea of what a typewriter should be.
This is the closest I could find. It's black, it's a Remington Steele! and it came out in 1928! No wonder my head exploded with the squee.
I don't mind the expense, truly. It would just have to be one of those purchases of the heart. And I'd order heaps of ribbons. And even with the American dollar exchange rate, I'd gird my loins and do it.
I totally have this romantic idea of doing the next novel on it for NaNo, coming home every night and hammering out a thousand six hundred and sixty-seven words without editing as I go, with all the spelling mistakes and badly phrased clauses, just this raw hammered thing of page after page after page. And then at the end of the month, I'll have this stack of black on white, the raw rough first draft. And in January, I can sit down at my laptop and type it up into an electronic document, editing it then because the impulse will be irresistible.
Except that if I do NaNo on a typewriter, how the fuck am I supposed to know how many words I've done to the exact number? I'm not gonna sit there and count each word on each page, that'd drive me nuts and I'd never get to sleep each night cos I'd miss words and not count it right and, what's worse, want to edit it right then and there.
And how'm I gonna upload it to the site if I'm not gonna type it up into electronic form til January? I can't sit there and type it up again every night. That would defeat the bloody purpose.
Also, finally and possibly most crucially? I don't have a desk. Aren't typewriters made specifically for flat hard surfaces? I don't exactly relish the prospect of balancing a typewriter on my thighs in bed, even if it is supposed to be 11 pounds 8 ounces, whatever that means. Wouldn't bode well for my wrists either, having them in such an awkward position without support. And I have no bloody space or use for a desk.
Possible solution: clear the top of my travel chest and use that as a makeshift desk. Only that means sitting on the floor and needing some support at my back. Hrrrrmmmmm.
Way more cons than pros, right? But but but! Oof. Iwannatypewriterrrrrrrrrr! *flings self on floor and has flailing tantrum*
Somebody please slap me and tell me it's not practical right now and that when I am a famous writer with millions of dollars in the bank, I can buy that house in Drummoyne and set aside a room just to house a gorgeous typewriter at a real oldfashioned writing desk with the roller cover and a lovely plush comfortable chair, and there I can bang happily away without disturbing anyone with the racket, fragments of fingernail shooting off in all directions, and me wearing protective goggles. Oh wait, I have glasses. That's all right, then.
I might ask the Aunt, she finds solutions. *nods* And you realise the irony is I still haven't bought that new laptop. *snorfle* Who's turning into a little steampunk retrochic tragic, then? *clings to iPod*
Over the past month, I've been having this recurring thought and every time it bloody recurs, I dwell a little longer on it. Last week it culminated in Googling during court and experiencing a little jolt of excitement in my chest when I found after a while that I could actually purchase the damned things.
I want a typewriter.
Not one of those that allow you to type the whole sentence and then print it out. Not an electric one. The proper huge monster murder weapon kind with the keys you have to stab and see the steel prong wham up and the sound is like a shot and the carriage return is this raw grind with the rewarding ting of the bell. Now that I think about it, I think my grandmother had one in India. Which is prolly why I have such a vivid idea of what a typewriter should be.
This is the closest I could find. It's black, it's a Remington Steele! and it came out in 1928! No wonder my head exploded with the squee.
I don't mind the expense, truly. It would just have to be one of those purchases of the heart. And I'd order heaps of ribbons. And even with the American dollar exchange rate, I'd gird my loins and do it.
I totally have this romantic idea of doing the next novel on it for NaNo, coming home every night and hammering out a thousand six hundred and sixty-seven words without editing as I go, with all the spelling mistakes and badly phrased clauses, just this raw hammered thing of page after page after page. And then at the end of the month, I'll have this stack of black on white, the raw rough first draft. And in January, I can sit down at my laptop and type it up into an electronic document, editing it then because the impulse will be irresistible.
Except that if I do NaNo on a typewriter, how the fuck am I supposed to know how many words I've done to the exact number? I'm not gonna sit there and count each word on each page, that'd drive me nuts and I'd never get to sleep each night cos I'd miss words and not count it right and, what's worse, want to edit it right then and there.
And how'm I gonna upload it to the site if I'm not gonna type it up into electronic form til January? I can't sit there and type it up again every night. That would defeat the bloody purpose.
Also, finally and possibly most crucially? I don't have a desk. Aren't typewriters made specifically for flat hard surfaces? I don't exactly relish the prospect of balancing a typewriter on my thighs in bed, even if it is supposed to be 11 pounds 8 ounces, whatever that means. Wouldn't bode well for my wrists either, having them in such an awkward position without support. And I have no bloody space or use for a desk.
Possible solution: clear the top of my travel chest and use that as a makeshift desk. Only that means sitting on the floor and needing some support at my back. Hrrrrmmmmm.
Way more cons than pros, right? But but but! Oof. Iwannatypewriterrrrrrrrrr! *flings self on floor and has flailing tantrum*
Somebody please slap me and tell me it's not practical right now and that when I am a famous writer with millions of dollars in the bank, I can buy that house in Drummoyne and set aside a room just to house a gorgeous typewriter at a real oldfashioned writing desk with the roller cover and a lovely plush comfortable chair, and there I can bang happily away without disturbing anyone with the racket, fragments of fingernail shooting off in all directions, and me wearing protective goggles. Oh wait, I have glasses. That's all right, then.
I might ask the Aunt, she finds solutions. *nods* And you realise the irony is I still haven't bought that new laptop. *snorfle* Who's turning into a little steampunk retrochic tragic, then? *clings to iPod*