I inherited my granny’s old typewriter when I was in Fifth Grade.
It came in a hard-sided olive green case.
I loved the sound of the keys when I worked out the staccato of my thoughts into words.
The bell at the end of the line was music to my ears.
I miss typing on an authentic typewriter, which may be why I still insist on a keyboard with the old style, raised keys.
Granny never saw my book, she never knew that I had written one.
Despite that, her influence is seen on every page.
My granny gave me an incredible gift when she gave me that old typewriter.
She gave me permission to daydream and imagine life as an author.
Her old green typewriter is long gone; and I still sigh over not being able to staccato out my thoughts and hear that melodious bell at the end of every line, but I am thankful for the way that her indulgence of a child’s whim fashioned me into the woman that I am today.