I’d like you to meet my new muse.
It’s not the scarecrow, but the heavy black typewriter resting in front of it.
An early birthday present from my sister, it’s the replacement for a 1939 Smith Corona typewriter used my first year of college.
I preferred banging on its round keys, creating staccato clickety clack music to the buzz of computers being added daily to the library.
Besides, it beat walking across campus at -30 below.
The typewriter actually belonged to Dad. He’d bought it used for his own college years decades before.
I can still imagine him huddled in wool sweaters pulled down to his knuckles, busily typing J-School papers in a drafty St. Paul attic apartment.
So I felt honored to have the machine with me for my own first year of school.
That is until I lost it in one on my many moves.
I believe it’s tucked away in yet another old attic some where across the Mississippi in Minneapolis, where I attended college.
Still dealing with the guilt (a Norwegian thing) and still missing that old typewriter, I met up with my muse in a gift store recently.
This work of art was manufactured by Remington Rand, a company where Grandpa once worked.
And Dad eventually joined him there in public relations, for a division of the same company.
Talking to my sister this week, I told her how I’ve been in a rut with my writing.
Then I told her how amused I was when I encountered the old Remington Rand.
A wise woman, she knew I needed to add some rhythm back in my writing so the muse has moved in.
Right next to the iPad.
And I’ve found my muse is a very hard worker.
But also stubborn.
She absolutely refuses to learn spell check.