Keys to Wear

Say you've got an antique typewriter. It's not worth much, despite its age. But the keys, they're something else. They show wear from years of use. You imagine the papers, documents, stories written for decades. It's inspirational. And you can think of nothing cooler than to... wear them on your wrist?

I would. I keep my eyes open not only for typewriters to fill my collection, but for one from which the buttons could be used to make a bracelet. I might have mine say believe or write often, something visual that would encourage me to press on.

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What would you have yours say?

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Photo from Google images.

How Old is Your Soul?

I'm 31. I don't mind admitting it. It's young in the grand total of ages.

Sometimes I wonder if my soul isn't older.

I can be old-fashioned in my thinking. Sometimes I feel out-of-touch with my own generation and its wants, its pastimes. I might feel more comfortable among women twice my age, in conversation and connection, rather than those of my own generation. I've gone on and on here before about antiques--anything of age, really--and my love for them.

The main character in my WIP is 82; her kids, all in their fifties, are satisfying to write about. And I'm reading The Bondwoman's Narrative, which was written by a slavewoman sometime around the mid-eighteen hundreds. Her speech and words, the flow of her thinking, draw me in as if we communicated with such prose every day.

I once took a Facebook quiz about my soul's age, and it suggested 42. Part of me thinks even that's too young.

Not that I'd ever know for sure, because I'm 31. Ask my mom.


Do you ever wonder about your soul's age?

It's Official: I'm a Collector

I bought my first old typewriter, a Smith and Corona, soon after I said to myself, I'd really like to have an old typewriter. It'd just be neat. And what should happen, but that one nearly jumped out and bit me whilst perusing a local antique store. I fell over myself getting to it (not really, but can't you just see it?), and knew within seconds that baby was mine.

The shop owner said, upon my approach to the checkout, "I know what you're going to do with this. You want the keys for making jewelry." While I actually quite love the idea of such jewelry, I knew I wanted this machine as is. "Nope. I want it just like this." I think it adds some authenticity to my writing nook.

Old typewriter numero dos came to live with me a month or so ago. Some girlfriends and I had gone to a few of our favorite haunts, and this one's silver case winked at me from a corner. It's much less exciting than the S&C, but it's also much smaller and lighter. It's a portable HermesBaby Featherweight, from the '60s. It's neat because it disappears into its prim little box. I imagine a war correspondent or some such toting it around.

After the addition of Hermes to the family, misterwrites and I had a conversation about how typewriters would be a sticky item to collect. Typically they're big, clunky. And they just sit, doing nothing. I knew I'd not seek out any other machines.

But then...

Last Friday, when I had the day to myself, I went antiquing. I was taking my time, browsing and enjoying the calm process. And then - what is it with catching my eye? - there is was, my new piece de resistance... a dial typewriter from the 1930s. I had no clue such a thing existed! Turns out, it was created as a toy - but a working one, at that. How could I not get it? Tell me it's not cool.

So, I think it's official. I'm a collector.

Turn A Letter Into Fiction

I've been enjoying your great thoughts on Monday's post about honesty in writing. Thanks for the discussion!

And for today's topic...

Some may recall I have an interest in antiques. What seems to catch my eye most often of late are old letters and postcards, and I know it's because of the stories - whatever they are - behind those pieces. I love turning possibilities for their existence over in my mind.

Two weekends ago, I attended an antiques show and vintage market with some friends. One booth had a plastic tub full of old envelopes, and I brought two home. My favorite is this one.

Postmarked on February 18th of 1939 (70 years ago today!), it journeyed from San Francisco to Father Flanagan at Boys Town in Nebraska. I just think that's pretty darn cool. Handwritten notes in pencil declare it a personal, first-class letter, and that postage was 3 cents short (for a total of 9 cents). What tugs at me most though, is the ever-so-light script that reads: "Father - chocolate enclosed for Nellie." It's like a playground for my imagination.

And I want you guys to play with me.

You've read pieces of my flash fiction (some of which you can find in the sidebar to the right), but today I'm asking you to write some.

Using any or all of the details above, or even just the picture, write a blurb. (Keep it on the shorter end, though. Let's say as few as you need, but no more than 250 words.) Post it in the comments section - or on your own blog, and let me know you've done so.

I'll take "entries" until Saturday, midnight CST. I'll then deliberate and choose the one that speaks to me most. Come Monday, a "winner" will be announced, and he or she will receive a new, hardbound copy of James Patterson's Sam's Letters to Jennifer. Fitting, eh?

Are you up for the challenge? If so, hop to. And spread the word! The more the merrier on my playground.