Sitting here typing this morning I can’t help thinking how different I would feel if I were working on an old wooden desk instead of the slim line black number I have. How different it would be hammering away at a typewriter, hearing the clatter of the keys and the sound of the bell on each carriage return. Seeing a pile of written sheets build up at the side as the work progresses. I had that kind of start with my writing, one of the lucky ones some might say, or perhaps one of the older guys, as others would suggest. I was born in the early 60s. Wrote my first thing in 78 and have been writing one thing or another ever since. My first story and poems were typed up on an old Royal typewriter which stood on an old weather-beaten wooden desk. Did it feel different? Yes, it made me feel like I was a writer in the spirit of Hemmingway. Does it really matter? No, of course not, just a writer’s daydream, but we do love those don’t we?
