That's a True Story.

What is so therapeutic about punching these keys?

The constant punch-slam followed by the ding-whirr.

New sentence.

With a typewriter, every word, every letter I punch I have to mean it. There's no going back.

After an hour or so of the sound, my ears are ringing and my head is aching. But I don't stop. It's a good ache.

Satisfying. Raw.

I've grown too accustomed to the formal, rigid tick-tack of the keys on my macbook. How can I call myself a writer when I've forgotten the sound of a typewriter? The punch-slam of pure, organic creative energy?

It's glorious. It's real.

How have I forgotten the sound of creativity? Of urgency? How can I call myself a writer when I no longer use the bravest form of writing? Without the convenience of a clean delete button, without the cut/paste trick?

How could I forget the feeling when it was just me, my typewriter, and my insatiable need to write?

The sound reminds me why I need to write.

There is so much in my head at once, it's nearly impossible to stop thinking. All those ideas, thoughts, memories, stories, questions, pain, joy, love, and despair all screaming at once.

If I don't write, if I don't get it all out somehow, if I don't try to make sense of it all through an endless tangle of words, those thoughts and memories, that pain and joy begin to rot and fester becoming a neglected & powerful monster.

Too much piles up and I feel myself edging closer to insanity--the one thing I truly fear.

(This is not the teenage-corny-ironic idea of insanity. I've felt my mind reach a breaking point where I no longer have control over my emotions or my thoughts. The terrifying feeling of being stuck with the uncontrollable force of my mind is a memory I wish I could forget. I know what it's like to go crazy. And the fear of it happening again haunts me.)

How then can I not write? How can I not put everything in my brain out there somewhere?

So many times I've felt myself again on the edge of insanity, consumed by fear & dread, waiting for the last of my mind to slip and become lost forever only to be pulled back by the punch-slam sound of my typewriter. That raw, honest punch-slam and ding-whirr has sometimes been the only thing keeping me out of a padded cell. The sound of each word, each letter punched with purpose reminds me I'm still here. My mind has not festered to the point where I can no longer create tangles of words to make sense of everything.

As long as I can create, as long as I can listen to the punch-slam of my own creativity till my head is numb, I know I am still fighting for my sanity.

This typewriter saves my goddamn life.

That's a true story.

Love you.
Mean it.