Ideas are infinite, like outer space, but getting there, and living in the void, is a whole different story. -Intellectual Shaman
My stories weren’t selling, and in response to this failure, my computer died.
“Bad luck, I guess.”
I was always talking to myself because adversity was my best friend. It was impossible to end this relationship, or so I thought.
I said to myself, “I need a challenge.” But the truth was, I needed to overcome—overcoming is different. It’s like the gambler who plays to win, rather than the one who needs to lose. Most people lose; they don’t know how to win. Even if a loser wins, they will always give their winnings away.
So, I decided to shop for a new computer, one that would help me win. Technology is cheap; I didn’t need much, but 50 dollars doesn’t go very far. Re-PC scoffed at me. So, I tried the Good Will.
“We gave up on computers 10 years ago. Most second-hand technology has more viruses on it than a toddler with chicken pox.”
So, I left the loading dock, but he called after me, “Wait! I do have something for you, you can have it for free.”
The price was right, so I followed him into the back room. It was a typewriter, black, like outer space, with shining ivory letters.
“This has been in the closet since 1970. Let’s try it out.” He put a newsletter through the ream, and punched the keys with three fingers.
The sky is blue. Tulips are red. I love you.
“Poetic,” I said.
“I write poetry on WordPress; not very good, but it gives me something to do in the evenings.”
I scooped up his typewriter. It weighed at least 50 pounds. Walking outside, I expected it to be raining, but the sky was blue.
“Strange,” I said. I noticed some red tulips in the Good Will flower bed. “I’m just imagining things…”
“I love you,” a man said to his wife.
I started to get excited. “I’m going crazy. That’s what chronic failure has done to me. “
When I got home, I set up the typewriter. It stood on the desk like a mighty pyramid, a monument to the past. It couldn’t hurt to type something, I thought. My computer paper wasn’t being used, so I threaded a pure white sheet into the black machine.
I noticed a scratch on the side. Ian Flemming? Did this typewriter belong to the creator of James Bond? If so, it was worth a fortune, but I was even more excited to see if it would give me inspiration.
I started punching the keys like a heavyweight fighter. Pretty soon I had ten pages. I described a sandy beach, near my ocean villa, where I dove for octopi with beautiful women. A villain approached with a sniper rifle. I fired a spear gun into his chest. “He got the point.” Then I stopped, looking outside. My apartment was on a beach, and the shore looked like Jamaica. Two women were walking out of the ocean, wearing bikinis. I noticed a dead man floating in the surf, with an arrow protruding from his chest.
I stared at the typewriter. What had I written into existence? I was God—a literary God. Now it was time to play in the fantasy of my own creation.
“The potential…!” I muttered. I was a gambler who had finally won.
“Just a couple more words,” I said.
And then the typewriter broke.