Sometimes, I wish that the computer had never been invented.
I wish that I could sit in a warm, comfortable room, with the sunlight streaming in through the window lighting up the millions of swirling dust-motes and with the sounds of a bucolic English countryside as the only interruption. My room would be finely appointed, without being gaudy; perhaps a well polished wood floor, with a large mahogany desk cluttered nicely about with half-written manuscripts, jotted notes, and a couple of ink pots. Whenever I would write by hand, I know that I would love the creamy, smooth feel of the paper and the way that my fountain pen glides over the medium; sometimes, the only thing that you would be able to hear in my office is the ticking of the ship's clock on the mantle and the scratch-scratch-scratch of my fountain pen on the smooth, creamy paper.
Directly behind me as I write at my desk is a window that opens up to an entirely different world. Perhaps, as I mentioned before, it would open upon the rolling lea of an English countryside, dotted about with large, verdant green trees. Or, perhaps, an entirely different vista; a slow moving, turgid river, or the waves of the Atlantic smashing with ceaseless brutality against the sandy shingle, or the gentle creaking of an old-growth forest; or, here in America, the limitless mountains of the Rockies, snow-capped even in summer, their fierce independence breathless in their majesty and their eye-bending beauty shouting "look at me" into the rest of the world.
At times while I scratch-scratch-scratch on the manuscripts, I would lay my pen aside and swivel my chair, steepling my fingers and simply staring out the window, marveling at the beauty of creation. My thoughts would run wild and free, roaming over worlds, territories, people and things that have never been created or visualized before. Or, perhaps, I would muse over more practical matters, such as how to pay for such a beautiful manse with such an incredible view.
After I had my manuscript written out on the creamy, smooth parchment, I would begin inserting paper into my typewriter, and my office would now be filled with an entirely new noise; the clacking of the keys, the smacking of the armature upon the paper. The inky smell of the typewriter would fill the room; it wouldn't be overpowering or unpleasant, but the casual visitor would notice it upon entering the room.
I would work long hours in my office, scratching with my fountain pen or typing with my typewriter; often, the sun would set and I would have to light my oil lamps, casting the room with a sort of soft, comforting light. During the winters, I would light a roaring fire in the fireplace, and I would often lose track of my writing to stare deeply into the crackling logs and the flames. Perhaps, I would pour myself a finger or two of scotch, and sit in front of the fire, swirling the beverage in my glass and contemplating the deeper meanings of what I was writing.
Instead, I'm stuck in the beginning of the 21st Century. So where are our flying cars?
I wish that I could sit in a warm, comfortable room, with the sunlight streaming in through the window lighting up the millions of swirling dust-motes and with the sounds of a bucolic English countryside as the only interruption. My room would be finely appointed, without being gaudy; perhaps a well polished wood floor, with a large mahogany desk cluttered nicely about with half-written manuscripts, jotted notes, and a couple of ink pots. Whenever I would write by hand, I know that I would love the creamy, smooth feel of the paper and the way that my fountain pen glides over the medium; sometimes, the only thing that you would be able to hear in my office is the ticking of the ship's clock on the mantle and the scratch-scratch-scratch of my fountain pen on the smooth, creamy paper.
Directly behind me as I write at my desk is a window that opens up to an entirely different world. Perhaps, as I mentioned before, it would open upon the rolling lea of an English countryside, dotted about with large, verdant green trees. Or, perhaps, an entirely different vista; a slow moving, turgid river, or the waves of the Atlantic smashing with ceaseless brutality against the sandy shingle, or the gentle creaking of an old-growth forest; or, here in America, the limitless mountains of the Rockies, snow-capped even in summer, their fierce independence breathless in their majesty and their eye-bending beauty shouting "look at me" into the rest of the world.
At times while I scratch-scratch-scratch on the manuscripts, I would lay my pen aside and swivel my chair, steepling my fingers and simply staring out the window, marveling at the beauty of creation. My thoughts would run wild and free, roaming over worlds, territories, people and things that have never been created or visualized before. Or, perhaps, I would muse over more practical matters, such as how to pay for such a beautiful manse with such an incredible view.
After I had my manuscript written out on the creamy, smooth parchment, I would begin inserting paper into my typewriter, and my office would now be filled with an entirely new noise; the clacking of the keys, the smacking of the armature upon the paper. The inky smell of the typewriter would fill the room; it wouldn't be overpowering or unpleasant, but the casual visitor would notice it upon entering the room.
I would work long hours in my office, scratching with my fountain pen or typing with my typewriter; often, the sun would set and I would have to light my oil lamps, casting the room with a sort of soft, comforting light. During the winters, I would light a roaring fire in the fireplace, and I would often lose track of my writing to stare deeply into the crackling logs and the flames. Perhaps, I would pour myself a finger or two of scotch, and sit in front of the fire, swirling the beverage in my glass and contemplating the deeper meanings of what I was writing.
Instead, I'm stuck in the beginning of the 21st Century. So where are our flying cars?
7 comments:
hey, thanx for checking out me blog. Nice that I'm not the only person out there who likes "The warlords of Nin". = )
I really orta post some of me blog entries rather than just leaving them all as drafts. lol
Lord James-
Sounds fine. Bonny idea you have there, me lad. Although not a great writer myself I certainly can see your office.
Mine would be a quiet library, the leatherbound tomes of great authors such as yourself smelling of fine leather with a hint of dust and the smell of freshly waxed wood floors mingling with the fine smell of my aged scotch.
Deep red drapes would muffle unwanted sounds so that all I could hear is the sound of birds and maybe a horse neighing in the pasture.
Dark deep leather wingback chairs add a nice "Scottish gentleman's club" accent to the military collectables and claymores adorning the walls, don't you think? And maybe a bust of Socrates or Plato.
Humbly your servant-
McAndrus
P.S.Where the heck ARE those dang aircars!
Forgot to add the military memorabilia!! Darn. I guess that's a whole different room entirely. Perhaps, a different wing...
Sweetness!
Sounds great - scrap the typewriter.
:)Ian(:
Sounds good, but my hand would get pretty cramped after a while.
The Warlords of Nin! Of course! I read the first in the Trilogy, In the Hall of the Dragon King, and I got part way through the second, and then it had to go back to the library, and I got so preoccupied with other things that I forgot the name! Thanks!
~Elliot
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