The day I make it big will be the day I finally can read one of my own pieces and think ‘Ah, you did good Ceecee.’ I’ve been writing since my grandfather first caught me trying to fix his typerwriter that I broke. I hadn’t meant to touch the thing, it just had a sense of ‘mystique’ about it that I couldn’t resist. A piece of history that never really died. I crept into his room like a sneaky rat looking for food to push on the buttons for that ‘Snap’ noise. It fascinated me. I’d watched my grandfather type his Sunday sermon’s on the monstrous thing and wondered how the heck it worked. Now this was a time before laptops and notebooks the era of technology. I considered myself a fairly lazy-minded child back then and always looked for the easy way out of things, homework to be exact. I hated having to WRITE down this and that as if our hands were programmed to hold a pen for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t stand it so what did I do? I went on a noble search for an easy escape from it all. That’s how I stumbled upon the prehistoric type writer my grandfather treasured.

I had been assigned by my elementary teacher Mr.Elliot the week before to write a short story about a mystery object that could change the world and it had to be at least 250 words or more. Now, I’m all for using my imagination to think up different scenarios, it’s what made me a good ‘white’ liar at certain times in my childhood, but to write a 250 worded story about it? And my parents wondered why I always had a silent loathing for Mr. Elliot (Sorry Sir, I swear I don’t hate you now) I had stared at my 1b5 notebook like a deer in headlights, willing it to evaporate into the air and noticed the only signs of work I had to show for was the impressive flower boarder I had drawn and coloured in.

True to my lazy-minded nature, I closed my book and left it haphazardly around the house thinking I would come back to my assignment on a later time… Well that later time turned into the night before the assignment was due. Defeated and slightly panicking from the loss of time, I found myself in my grandfather’s room eyeing out the old typewriter like it was the Holy Grail to my demise. I grabbed the heavy thing and dragged it out to a small corner to work.

Opening the plastic covering, I sent a short breathed gasp and felt a sense of anticipation tingling my fingertips. I was going to zoom passed 250 words of nonsense and make the most amazing short story ever written that I’d have to write a small warning on it for Mr.Elliot to hold onto his socks before reading incase they were literally blown off by the intensity and ultimate awesomeness of my short story. Placing a blank, crisp piece of paper into the paper roll, I flicked and clicked any and every handle, joint and clutch I saw thinking that was how it worked. After about a minute of fumbling with the metal contraption, I felt ready to start my story endeavours. Palms sweaty and fingers slightly numb from the excitement, I pushed the letter ‘I’ to start off my stoy. Hearing that magnanimous ‘Snap’ of the metal hand hitting the paper, I jolted in excitement and found myself bursting with ideas to write down. Right at the pinnacle of my heightened senses, I accidentally leant on the lever a little too hard and heard loud ‘CLANK’. That sound will forever be a reminder of the time I had my hopes stripped from me for the first time.

My grandfather had heard the noise and came to investigate. Noticing my flustered state, he asked me what I was doing and grabbed the typewriter from me. My mouth was dry and my heart was beating at such an accelerated rate, I felt my bladder weaken and a strong urge to race to the bathroom had enveloped me. At seeing my scared reaction, my grandfather, called me over in his soothing voice and seated me on his bed next to him. After the expected lecture about asking before touching something that isn’t mine, he then said the most important words I will forever hold dear to my writer’s heart, he said

‘When you look, you look with your eyes, when you speak you speak with your mouth, when you listen, you listen with your ears Yes? So when you write, what do you write with?’

I have to be honest with you, I deemed it a little odd he asked me that since the answer was so obvious. At that time I didn’t realize the point he was making, until a couple years later when I was well off into Junior High and stumbled upon a poster that hung in our local library that read

‘The pen is mightier than the sword. — Edward Bulwer

It’s an overused text but only because the truth laced in it is stronger than any I’ve ever come across. You could say I had a slight adolescent epiphany at that moment, because days and years that followed after my new found encouragement, I had written over 12 poems and 5 short stories that I kept in my journal. My grandfather sadly passed away on the 23rd of May 2013 and even though he’s gone, you’ll find me from time to time sneaking into that very room 14years ago and staring at the same typewriter I had broke (which he got fixed). Not to remind me of the embarrassing moment he caught me in his room with it, nor is it a reminder of my days of taking the easy way out… When I look at the type writer I picture the moment my grandfather asked me the most simplest question that held the most simplest answer, that to this day I keep close to my heart.

‘..When you write, you write with your hands…’