Author Topic: Feather  (Read 45 times)


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« on: January 14, 2020, 01:08:16 AM »
   I became interested in writing the moment I sat down at my mother’s brand new electric typewriter. Wow, I thought, as I clicked the keys and words formed on a little green screen. Then, at the end of the line, I clicked Enter, and away the machine went, printing every single letter that I had inputted. My little eyes were wide and mad with creativity. I wrote stories about mice in cars and poems about sentient bunnies. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Then my father introduced me to the Word Processor on his computer. He showed me how to change fonts. I figured out how to put pictures in on my own. I wrote stories based on each picture that the program had, then I rewrote them when I ran out of pictures.
   One day I sat down and couldn’t think of anything to say.

   My mom bought me lots of gifts relevant to writing. One fascinated me more than others. A quill with an ink well, and how I loved the look of that brown feather pen. Of course, I couldn’t use it. It was just for display. Much like everything else I owned, none of it defined me, but I suppose it inspired me. Not in a linear way, but in a long shot hail Mary sort of method. Eventually I would move away from the mice stories and rabbit poems and just focus on my thoughts and feelings. Even if most of those feelings were anger and apathy and disappointment.
   You move your quill up and down a blank canvas and you find your voice like a suburban mom who’s lost her car keys. Words are easy. Phrases are the guitar solos that pick you out. Meaning floats about as lost in the wind as that Forest Gump feather.


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