Sorry, you're not my type...writer!

I finally found my daughter’s computer. It was hidden under a bunch of teenager junk. Kids are such slobs today (suddenly I’m channeling Paul Lynde from ‘Bye Bye Birdie’).

I sure miss my daily dose of blogging, but not having a computer at hand has done wonders for my creative output. Instead of spending obscene amounts of time researching important stuff (and no, I don’t mean naked muscleman pictures) on the WWW I’ve been pounding out an impressive number of pages of the latest book I’m working on. For a couple of weeks I was actually writing with a pencil and paper of all things, but then I remembered that my next door neighbor has one of everything in the world in his garage, so I went over and borrowed a typewriter. Remember those? The kid at OfficeMax thought I was speaking Latin when I asked him where the typewriter ribbons were.

One of the most interesting things about writing on a typewriter is that it holds you accountable for your actions. If you type a word, or even a single letter for that matter, you’d dang well better mean it, because things are going to happen. None of this casual deleting random words or phrases you just want to type for fun. If you do the crime you have to do the time. (The time it takes to Wite-Out and wait for it to dry)

Oh, and it’s a good thing I saved my old dictionary. I’d forgotten that typewriters don’t have autocorrect.

I’ll be back online soon enough, but in the meantime this is a valuable learning experience that I’m certain I’ll learn something from. Oh, yeah, now I remember, don’t bring your laptop in the bathtub with you. No, that’s not it. When I remember I’ll let you know.

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