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Lorraine Carpenter in typing class at Aldergro...

Lorraine Carpenter in typing class at Aldergrove Highschool, British Columbia / Lorraine Carpenter participant à un cours de dactylographie à l’école secondaire Aldergrove, Colombie-Britannique (Photo credit: BiblioArchives / LibraryArchives)

Does this title ring any bells for any of my readers?  I don’t remember my typing teacher’s name, but I certainly remember her voice, which managed to screech with every letter she called out.  You’d think her beehive would have softened the sound.  “Accuracy, girls!  And boys too, I suppose.”  Ah, she was a charmer.

It used to matter, how fast you typed, how accurate you were.  In the days of carbon paper and white out.  Oh, the excitement of electric typewriters, and the white out ribbon! I love to look at the old typewriters, have an excellent, artsy photo of one, and one of these days I’m going to find the perfect old manual in an antique store, at a perfect price, waiting for me to bring it home and display it.  But I don’t miss typing on one.  It was slow and often painful, needing to hit each key with the same amount of force, keys getting stuck and invariably getting my finger hammered trying to unstick them.

You can imagine my pleasure when someone refers to writing as typing.


Misprints (Photo credit: eldeeem)

Flower Child, “Mommy, are you finished typing yet?”  Husband, “I thought you were still typing.”  Especially since I do associate Husband with literal typing.  He went to college with my brother.  I typed several of their papers.  After one particularly long and hideous paper, I had a PTSD type reaction for years after whenever I had need to tap out the word acetaminophen.

The past few days have thrown my writing schedule way, way off.  I think my last post here on Mrs Fringe was the last semi-coherent thing I wrote.  First I had the mother of all migraines, laid me out for a full day, left me dizzy for a second day.  Yesterday I had a meeting during my usual writing time.  I’m most productive in the mornings.  It took too many years for me to figure that out, opposed my image of myself as writ-ah, tap tap, tapping away during the night.  Turns out I’m in fine company, plenty of respected, lauded writers and writ-ahs work in the morning. Not least of which was Hemingway.  Ah, the lore and lure of Papa.

I thought I would get back to work today, but no such luck.  Flower Child was sick.  Can’t get lost in fantasy land when you’re watching the clock to call the doctor’s office for an appointment.  OK, done.  I thought I would have time to get a few pages done, but the more days I’m away from the manuscript, the longer it takes for me to get back into my characters’ heads, and be productive.  One page.  One page and then it was time to take her to the doctor.  In the pouring rain that didn’t stop. All day, drip, drip, squish.  Luckily, once we were there, I got to find out in addition to an infection, FC has lost two pounds.  Aargh!!!  Two pounds is way too much for a kiddo who literally has nothing to spare.

Right now, I’d be ok with a few uninterrupted hours to practice my typing.

A monkey typing

A monkey typing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)