Hi! My name is Allegra, and I am addicted to writing. In fact, I’m a sucker for anything I can use to write – with a keyboard or without. I find that being unable to write at will makes life more difficult for me. I can’t keep my thoughts bottled up inside, ticking like a time bomb. I have to get it out – shaking the poetry out of my pen at 3 am, clacking on a typewriter at sunset, or typing away on a blog post (ahem… this one) at a Starbucks in the valley. I received my first two typewriters on Christmas Day of 2009, from unsuspecting gift-givers: my boyfriend (now my husband) and my parents. They didn’t realize that they were both giving me the same gift (teehee – all the better for me)! This was my first Christmas with Sohrab, and this unexpected gift reflects the same unselfish love that he gives me to this day. They are both Smith-Coronas, one tan 1955 Silent Super that I use daily for my Etsy shop, and one refurbished black version of a similar model. My collection has since grown from multiple sources, but these two are a reminder of my humble beginnings, eyes wide with wonder at these complex, underestimated machines.
This also happens to be my very first Instagram post. You could say I’m proud of my handwriting – but my calligraphy is not what it should be. I have pots and pots of ink, multiple nibs – but my skill just doesn’t match my collection. I’m not even going to attempt to show you what I mean. I’m better with a journaling pen, my bullet journal, and cute stamps from Michaels. Random scraps of paper like the book borrowing sheet above find their way into my typewriter, the words strangled by the strict form, set free with each strike. Writing with a pen or a typewriter carries a certain weight that could never be replicated on a computer, tablet or phone. Each stroke or strike has a sense of finality. Each letter must be placed with purpose. Once it’s “out there,” there’s no coming back without making the change known. How does this change the end product? There’s something about a clean sheet of paper, a fresh notebook, that starts my mind reeling. There’s nothing more inspiring than space for creativity. The chance that this round might be the perfection I strive for lays flat in front of me, beckoning my pen. Streams of words flow into rivers, floods, oceans. I float atop the waves, dive deep past the reef. I swim upstream with the salmon, the brisk water inspiring movement. The burden of guiding the stream falls away when I let instinct and inspiration take over. None of my typewriters are currently equipped with white ribbons. The equivalent of white-out, a way out. Even with these correction options, the piece would not come out as intended, so I don’t allow myself the temptation. This limitation forces blunt action. A get-up-and-go attitude. Fear of mistakes does not beget success. Coldplay:
How long am I gonna stand with my head stuck under the sand? I’ll start before I can stop, before I see things the right way up.
Just write. 