Nothing in life is done without a reason. Sometimes those reasons are noble, other times selfish or misguided yet every action is under taken with a goal in mind. Understanding that goal and the ultimate motivations behind are what had made Thomas a success in marketing. Now staring at the old typewriter with its grey unflinching face he wondered what his own motivations were.
The typewriter, a Royal from 1954, with its original parts had adorned the slender unused writing desk on the far wall his den for the past ten years. Originally meant as a function piece it had become a keepsake, an heirloom which collected dust and compliments in equal measure while his time was monopolized on a now returned company computer. Thomas ran his fingers over the keys, the weight of the mechanisms inside pushing back. He cocked his head to the side, the note from his grandfather was still there.
Written on an index card it had been taped to the right of the typewriter when he had presented it as a gift. Thomas had never had the heart to remove it. He thumbed the paper gently feeling the still crisp edge as it recoiled to its natural place along the Royal’s gray frame.
“To my grandson on his 21st birthday. If you want to write, then write something from the heart. Make it meaningful, make it significant, if only to you. I know you will do great.” The fluid cursive letters wobbled against the white background, the effect of palsy setting it. It had been the last gift his grandfather had given him.
Forlorn he touched the card again for the first time pulling it enough from the grey painted surface to make out the clear contours of writing on the other side. Thomas sat up right pulling the old banker’s chair under him he leaned forward to inspect it. With an almost surgical meticulousness he peeled the tape back, freeing the card.
He felt the heft of it come loose in his fingers as he flipped it over to examine the unknown lettering. It portrayed the same message as the front, only half way through the letters terminated abruptly in a indecipherable squiggle of ink. Thomas stared at it for a moment, his eyes drawn to a dot of ink beside the jumble where his grandfather’s pen had rested after the failed attempt.
How many times had he tried to write that note? Thomas asked himself. In a world of preprinted cards, computers, and voice to text he had never he had never considered the effort the note must have required before. Thomas’s grip on the card shifted, he held it with reverence now, as though it were the most fragile document on earth.
He could still picture the junk drawer inside his grandparent’s kitchen below the microwave. Stuffed with the normal bric-a-brac one accumulates over eighty years, he could clearly remember the stack of lined index cards contained by two blue rubber bands. He tried in vain to recall how many had been left when he had helped his parents clear the house out after his grandfather passed a few months after his birthday. How many times had his grandfather written that message only to toss the card aside in frustration till he finally completed it? His chest sunk, collapsed under the total weight of the effort.
Thomas stared down at the card, his eyes unblinking and unfocused the world slowly blurred around him. He tried to imagine the commitment to something so simple. To picture all the moments that would have led his grandfather to the laminate wood table that had sat in their kitchen. The smoke rising from the ashtray at its center and the smell of burnt coffee from the old percolator on the stove. The heart break when he had taken pen to paper only to fail and the feeling when he had finally finished. As if in a dream he saw his grandfather’s face at the end, gaunt and creased by deep chasms it was broken in a weary smile.
Sniffling Thomas looked back to the card. This is what his grandfather had considered significant, for him to know in the most personal terms he was supported in his dreams. Whether he had meant it or not it showed the dedication required to achieve something you cared about, even if it went unnoticed.
“There was purpose and love in writing for you,” Thomas smiled. Solemnly he placed the card upright on the window sill beside him, the light passed through it like a piece of stained glass. Then returning to the typewriter he rested his fingers on the keys and set to work.
Jacquerie: (often capitalized) a peasants’ revolt
Author’s Note: Day 15 of 365. So in all honesty I wrote about twenty different versions of today’s short story, most of which had more to do with the prompt than the one I finally settled on. However, when I realized this would post on the National Day of Writing I wanted to find a way to connect with the often deeply personal reasons people put ink to paper.
As for why I personally write, I do it because I love the written word. Just like every book I have ever read has helped me grow as a person so has every word I have ever written, every story I have ever imagined. I also love the act of writing, of creating something from nothing and through that act communicating ideas, sentiments, feelings, and beliefs which may be completely relatable or as far removed from anything we previously imagined as possible. Nothing in human history has or could ever impact us the way the written word can. It has spurned moments of love, war, and everything in-between. Literature and art provide an understanding, not just of ourselves but of humanity and the human condition in general. The ability to contribute to that. To, through my writing, experience other lives or other worlds and share those experiences with other people is truly amazing. In the end that is why I write, because I love it and everything it gives to me and (hopefully) others.
The Flask/Pen 