On being a writer (and other misdemeanors) by
Fernando Sanchez

Long ago, when the complexities of adulthood had not yet troubled my mind, I got my hands on a hand-me-down typewriter.

It and I hit it off, big time. That loud thing and I had that instant spark that happens so seldom in life, and usually leads to either great sex or great creative spurts. Sometimes both.

The typewriter was a bona fide Olivetti model, if my now somewhat muddled memory serves me well. It was a noisy, honest-to-God mechanical contraption with ribbon spools and that messy black and red ink fabric stripe that had a bothersome tendency to become dislodged from the type guide every few keystrokes.

And it had a power, too. That typewriter kept beckoning and calling me, long after I lay my head down at night.

For you see, that Olivetti was more than a mere machine. It looked and acted like one, sure enough, and though I never got to see its arcane innards, I’m certain that it looked as artificial on the inside as it did on its battered outside.

But that’s not the point. The typewriter did have a life all of its own. An unseen energy ran through its keyboard, flicking before my eyes every time those ribbon spools turned. It sighed and breathed with a symbiotic lifeforce that seemed to be aware of my desire to harness such power.

A spectator would have seen nothing untoward. They would just see a kid awkwardly typing on blank A4 sheets. But I would see things quite differently indeed. For I’m a writer, you see, and our breed has a rather unique view of the world surrounding us.

The typewriter became a conduit for my hitherto untapped potential. It was always in me. Yet, I never had an outlet for it before. I’m sure my Composition tutors in school had an inkling of such hidden power. And they wanted to foster it, too, since they would regularly encourage me to read my work in front of the classroom. So I would stand there, right beside the mile-long tutor’s desk, a gigantic thing made out of oak, with scratches, scoffs, and half-written love messages all over it. I would stand, and I would read, and the classroom listened, for the most part. There were always rebels, detractors, and begrudgers. Jokers who just wouldn’t believe in the power of the word. And that was just fine by me, because I sure did believe.

I still do, and will certainly remain a believer as I write my own epitaph.

***

I loved writing during rainy days. I had a good writing spot, too, in a little alcove with access to the balcony. It was a bright, well-lit place. There was a round wooden table draped with a crimson velvet mantle right in the middle of the alcove. I would set up my trusty Olivetti on that table, with my back turned to the window behind me. It would have been no good to face the other way. All I could see through the window was a whole lot of balconies. Not a very inspiring sight.

So I would write most of the day, with rain pelting the window and the balcony. These would be very productive days, as words came easy. I was never afraid of the blank page, you see, though I know a blank canvas can fill the heart of the most seasoned of writers with deep horror and dread. To me, the blank page was a welcoming shelter, a world where I could find solace and fulfilment.

I was a rather introverted child. At that tender age, I wasn’t bent on solving life’s mysteries. My mind, though yet unpolluted by the ravages of adult life, lived a troubled enough existence. In later years, this darkness manifested itself through other channels. But back then, that typewriter became a trusted friend, cause it understood who I truly was.

The stuff that flowed from my creative side back then had a childish quality, no doubt about that. I was still on the good side of 10, after all. There were blatant rip-offs (re-imaginings, I tell myself to soften the blow) of well-known books, and stories full of space-faring heroes a la Flash Gordon (a movie that I loved as a child, by the way. As an adult, Ornella Mutti’s strapped body awakens a basic instinct in me, and I’m quite sure in many others too.) The stuff was tentative, experimental.

Yet, for all its childishness, notes from a dark melody already floated between the lines, and strands of fluid creativity dripped from every syllable. There was an organic quality to it, an omen perhaps of things to come. I wish some of it had survived down the ages, but it hasn’t.

It’s all lost in the void.

***

There are times when one questions the point of it all. Self-doubt is as insidious as a first batch of cancerous cells. It sets in undetected at first, then it hammers you down from within. And you begin to wonder about what you do, and why you do it. You question the validity of the craft, hell, you even begin to ask yourself am I good enough, will people even care? It happens to all writers at some point in their careers. It’s a rite of passage, like chickenpox. And much like chickenpox, you’re better off going through it early in your career.

Because once you’re over it, you’ll never have it again.

***

Love walked into my life, once or twice. Once, really, if one is to be completely truthful to one’s own feelings. The power of hindsight is a great one, and once we see the two sides of the coin, we know what truly loving someone means. We see all the colors and the blackness of it, all at once.

So yes, there was a love that was as intense as the monsoon rains, as hot as a ray of summer sun, and as fleeting as a butterfly’s lifespan. But it did exist, that much I know. I could have died in her arms, and had I done so, I’d have gone in a blaze of glorious bliss. Cause her body felt like home. I never felt like that before, and the odds are firmly stacked against me that I’ll ever feel it again. It was a once in a lifetime thing, a diamond in the dark.

That much I also know.

***

I wrote a story one time, I must have been eleven or twelve. It was some silly horror yarn about werewolves, a re-imagining of whatever movie or book I had in mind. It was hackneyed and cliched, sure. But serviceable, I thought. And I must have been right, too, cause that was one of those stories I read in front of the classroom. I stood in front of them, notepad in hand. Believe it or not, in those distant days, we still used pencils and paper to express ourselves. The internet and email were fever dreams still. So there I stood, and I read, and when I finished, I looked up. There was total silence in the classroom, almost like one of those cliched moments when a dog suddenly barks in the distance. I looked at my fellow pupils’ faces, and I smiled, cause I knew I had them. My teacher only reinforced that feeling when he told me that the whole class had been listening eagerly, waiting to find out what happened at the end of my story.

I had them.

***

I am no stranger to love. But love seems to be a stranger to me. I have this love/hate thing going with love, as weird as that may sound. We are odd bedfellows, almost too hot to handle each other. But not tonight. Tonight I’m indifferent. I want to love nothing but a good night’s sleep, and sleep will hopefully come easy. It usually does if my mind has been engaged in some creative stuff during the day. I feel at ease with myself. I feel fulfilled and done, for a while at least.

Other times, when words come hard or memories ride free, I have trouble sleeping. It is easy to lose control when you are a writer. Words sometimes get the better of you, for all the wrong reasons. And no matter how much effort you put into harnessing them, they can overcome you, and turn your mind into a maelstrom of unease.

***

The Olivetti took a good pounding, all things considered. I did work its keys with a feverish, almost mesmerizing zest. At that age, in between the time when your childish face fades and the teenager visage blooms, lots of things are undertaken with mesmerizing zest, aren’t they?

One discovers many things while riding the border between the end of childhood and the onset of puberty. You discover that the slimy creature that dwelled under your bed and only began whispering after your mother kissed you good night was never really there. It only lived in your head. That’s good, or bad, depending on how you look at it.

You also discover that things seem to be growing under the cashmere sweater of the girl who lives next door. That’s also good, or again, bad, depending on your perspective.

But most important thing you discover is that you have the power to change things with your words. You can make a difference.

***

I don’t recall what happened to the Olivetti. It outlived its usefulness, I guess. Times moved on.

Time, you see. Time is your enemy. Time always has a winning hand and a sneaky trick up its sleeve. Time is like a jester prancing around your head. And every now and again, he stops his tomfoolery, looks impatiently at you, and pretends to tap a watch on his wrist. It wants you to do things, for he knows time is relentless, and will outrun and outwit you, every time. You can’t deny the passing of time any more than you can deny your own breath.

And time will catch up with you in the end.

That much, I am also sure of.