Alright, here's the thing...
I want to own a typewriter and put it in an empty room with an unevenly stained wooden floor. It would sit on the floor and only occassionaly atop a crate or whatever else I choose to elevate it on. It would be constantly on the verge of running out of ribbon or ink or whatever else necessary to keep it useful. Windows would be the only light and therefore any writing done in the night hours would be completely void of editing, frustrating marvels the next morning.
And this all stems from my age old dream to successfully write a novel... a goal I've shoved so far back in my mind that I almost forgot it until recently.
Recently, when prose of Timothy Sweet ran through my head and I remembered how dear he'd been to me. Timothy, who was "not a man of courtships and romances..." flew back into my head and I wondered where I'd left him. Wandering a park in which sat a girl in a pink coat reading a collection of the cambridge poets, I believe. I tried to reimagine him, reach into his character and pull out words, sentences, paragraphs that would define him... and came out with nothing.
A typewriter came to mind and I wanted to leave this life of propellers and centerlines for that ancient mechanism and a solitary room. The truth is, I'd last maybe two days, crank out perhaps fifty pages of stream of consciousness bullshit and then progress would go to hell and I'd sit, face out the window, typewriter at my back wondering if the ceiling would permit a vfr flight. It doesn't stop there. I'd find my way out of that room and back into this damn, addictive cockpit and then... the pen in my hand would start scribbling nonsensical poems onto my kneeboard originally intended for atis weather updates and radio frequency change reminders.
This indecision over what I want to spend my time doing causes me to never be more than mediocre at anything I attempt to do. Because I can never dedicate myself to one craft... I have goal reaching ADHD
