I am a terrible procrastinator.
Actually, that's not quite accurate. I'm a fantastic procrastinator. There is no task that I cannot put off. (I was going to post this yesterday, but I never got around to it.) The problem is that I am so easily distracted, and when it comes to writing, distraction is right at my fingertips. I could work on the third draft of chapter four, but I could just as easily check my e-mail, balance my checkbook, play Scrabble on Facebook, check out the fantastic sale at McSweeney's (just what I need; thanks,Huntington), edit the photos I took at the Botanical Garden last week....
Well, you get the idea.
Last year, my other half bought me an early birthday present: the typewriter you see above. It's a Remington Quiet-Riter, circa 1950-something, as best I can tell. It's in working order and, as you can see, even includes the carrying case, which sort of makes it a portable (the precursor to the laptop, perhaps?).
I haven't used it yet. The ribbon was dry as toast (and, as I discovered when I pulled off the spool, a little moldy). This week, though, I ordered replacements from Ribbons Unlimited (which proves you can find absolutely everything on the Internet) and when they arrive, I'm looking forward to sticking my laptop in a drawer and writing on this for a while. I don't know if it will make a difference, but when I sat down a couple days ago to try out the keys, I remembered something: writing is work. And the effort to push down the keys is a really effective reminder of that.