Real Writer
How bad do you want it?
Cara Olson taught me to type in sixth grade.
She came up to the elementary school on her lunch break. We sat in a supply closet, narrowed by tall metal shelves filled with colorful construction paper, bottles of white paste, and boxes of pencils. Me at a small wooden desk.
She sat alongside me and showed me how to put my fingers to hit the keys, just pop them, so I could move quickly to the next. The tips of my fingers were much smaller than the letters.
My fingers were swollen with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis too. Short and frail they had a hard time reaching the keys. The stretch from Z to T was a big one. Plus pushing the Z-key on the old manual with a pinky finger wasn’t easy. You should try it one day on one of those old typewriters.
I had to work at it. But I wanted it.
Mrs. Olson wanted it for me too. She came every week, taught me in the supply closet until I learned.
There was nothing better than typing my stories on the machine that real writers used.
All I wanted was to be a real writer. I am one now, and it’s still what I want.
-p
