Tag Archives: typewriters

Kitten on the Keys

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In case you’re not familiar with the song, “Kitten on the Keys,” given it dates back to 1921 and the period’s ragtime craze, here’s a link so you can enjoy it.

I sure wish I could play the piano like that! Amazing what trained fingers can do!

My keyboarding skills are directed toward the one attached to my computer. And I must say, I’m good at it. I learned to touch type when I was around 12 years old on an old manual typewriter. I always wanted to be a writer, so it made sense.

Later, after graduating high school and looking for a job, I did a timed writing on an IBM Selectric typewriter at an employment agency where I clocked 94 words per minutes for ten minutes with only two errors. I can even type while carrying on a conversation, which even amazes me. How can fingers operate independently from the conscious mind? Seriously, I could copy a document while talking to someone.

Maybe it’s my super power, who knows?

But that’s not what this blog is about. As always, I tend to digress.

After I moved from Texas to New York and was getting my computer set up again, I decided my keyboard looked a little grungy, so I should probably clean it. It looked as if there was some debris underneath, so I got out the toothpicks to see what I could dig out. It didn’t take long to discover there was a whole lot more lurking in there than expected.

At a certain point, the toothpicks were inadequate, so I got out a metal shish kabob skewer. I’m not sure how long it took me, but it was well over an hour, maybe two. By the time I was done, here’s what I had.

Okay, I’d had that keyboard for a long time, possibly a decade. My little furbaby, Ophelia, never actually slept on it like some cats do, since my computer hutch has a keyboard tray that tucked it away when I wasn’t using it. However, when I was at work typing away at lightning speed, Ophie would often sit on my lap or walk (or sleep) in front of the monitor, as any cat owner will find familiar.

I had no idea there was that much space under there.

Needless to say, the keyboard functions much better now for some reason.

I don’t know if this is a cautionary tale (cat tail, perhaps?) or a heads-up that you might want to see what’s hidden in yours. Somewhere to direct your next cleaning frenzy, if you’re prone to such things.

No telling what you’ll find.

Maybe the keyboard is that proverbial “safe place” where all those things you’ve secured over the years have disappeared? Unfortunately, all I found in mine was cat hair, though a few things in that “safe place” did show up after the move.

Confessions of a Self-Admitted Reviewer from Hell

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Part One

One does not achieve such an honor easily or overnight. As I think about it, I realize that it started when I was a baby. Even before I started to talk I must have been aware of proper speech because my mother told me that I would form the words silently and obviously be thinking about their meaning, yet didn’t say anything out loud until I was three. Since I was an only child it was easy for her to find time to read to me and I was reading myself by the time I went to kindergarten. I remember sitting in first grade wondering why the other kids didn’t know what the words were, probably the first rumbling of that internal editor coming to life.

I learned how to write thank you notes as soon as I could hold a pencil and started writing letters to my favorite aunt about that same time. My mother was a perfectionist (yes, a Virgo, for those of you who know anything about astrology) and thus always corrected my grammar. By the time I reached 6th grade I was writing stories for the enjoyment of my fellow students (science fiction stories, I might add, mostly related to the planet of origin of our teachers).

Around that same time my mother taught me how to use a typewriter. An old manual one that took some serious effort to command the keys. Years later after I graduated from high school I took a typing test at a job agency where I achieved 98 words per minute with two errors. Putting words on paper were obviously never a problem. While everyone else hated essay exams I loved them. Even if I didn’t really know the answer I could B.S. my way through because I’d write so much the teacher probably got tired reading it and would just give me an A. Many years later when I worked as a NASA contractor and did quite a bit of technical writing, one of my bosses nicknamed me “The Mistress of Bullsh*t.” I was flattered, of course.

But there was one catch to all this. I had no confidence, in my writing or anything else. My mother’s criticism permeated every aspect of my life, including the one thing I was good at. It inhibited my creativity for fear whatever I did was not perfect. If you’re a parent, give that some thought. This is not to say that a parent should tell their child that something is prize winning material when it’s clearly not but honesty cuts both ways. If it’s good, say so, and it doesn’t have to be perfect. There’s a difference between coaching and criticism. If you don’t know the difference, then figure it out. I mean it.

Nonetheless, I loved to write, mostly nonfiction and journalistic articles. I worked as a stringer for a small hometown newspaper for a while. I can’t even remember how many newsletters I’ve edited, many of which I created in the first place, back when they were written on a manual typewriter and duplicated on a mimeograph or ditto machine. Some of you probably don’t even know what they were, those early precursors to modern day copy machines. I’m talking about the days before Kinkos much less home laser printers.

If you’re a writer who doesn’t remember those days, give it some thought. Would you have had the patience and perseverance required to retype an entire manuscript? That was business as usual for us old-timers. Yet that is how it used to be. Could that possibly explain the quality of books available back then versus now, when you’re always at risk of purchasing a real dog of a story filled with typos, grammatical faux-pas’, cardboard characters and an inconsistent plot? Might someone consider your book a dog?

Think about it.

(To be continued)