Writer's Cramps

I’ve been banging out a lot of prose these days. Actually, “banging out” is pretty dinosaur, given that I haven’t used a noisy typewriter in years. I still have one, a journalist’s electronic model safely stored under my bed, but even that made little noise. When I began writing, it was on a vintage Underwood, tall and square.

How about: “I’ve been clicking out”? The keys are much quieter and I always thought they make more of a liquid sound. When I’m over at the local health center having my red stuff being taken by the Registered Vampire Suckers, they spend time updating my records and the keyboards always sounded like liquid clicks. Don’t know why.

Anyway, however I’ve done it, the columns and the assignments have been flowing like stomach contents at a seasick party to which this blog has not been invited.

Now it’s our turn to return to that magical world of fantasy and make-believe of North Franklin Street, where tea bags do double flips into mugs of boiling water, the jazz music plays through the evening, and I sit here contemplating the mysteries of the universe, occasionally sharing my findings with you, my gentle readers.

The next order of business is rolling down to the Drivers’ License place and posing for what I hope will be a fairly decent picture that will carry me through for the next four years. I was badly surprised at what changed after ten years when my passport expired. I nearly did when I compared the “then and now” photos.