Typewriter

By Janet Olearski

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‘I don’t think you quite understand, Nick. We’re out of time. Ten more days and they’ll want their money.’

‘Is that ten day-days or ten working days?’ I said.

‘Not funny,’ she said, and the phone went dead.

I shuffled to the fridge, rattled out the rum and re-powered the contents of my glass. Back at my desk, I took baby sips and tried to see around the yellow Post-It notes that obscured the view from my window. I reflected on the nature of obligation, read notes at random, and sipped on. I was none the wiser. I had an incoherent narrative. As the daylight faded, I saw my reflected self materialise in the shiny blackness of the pane. Then a profound thought – we need these once in a while – that without my work I would hardly know who I was. And, on staring into that dark mirror, I no longer recognised my own distorted image.

It was difficult to remember how I’d cajoled myself into starting, but I’d managed and felt smug about it. After that everything had petered out, all the juices used up, all the imagination wafted out through the air vent. I sat late into the night at my laptop, with nothing coming. A blank screen, a sense of guilt, of deep anxiety, of unhappiness. Woe, woe, woe, I’d think. Why me? Every day I’d be overcome by a bludgeoning weariness, and then I’d wake, slumped at my desk, my hair stuck to my forehead, my eyes bleary and unseeing.

Yes, I have always had a fondness for melodrama.

And now the ultimatum. I’d stalled to the limits of everyone’s patience and they were onto me. This long night I needed to step out and walk off the desperation, just follow the darkness. I needed to open some empty space in my head, like opening doors and windows to let out the bad air.

I wrestled into my jacket, my collar and cuffs askew, but what did I care? I caught sight of my face in the hall mirror as I exited the flat and it disturbed me. Surely I could look better than this? Not doing what I was supposed to do had wrecked me. Just thinking about having to do it had wrecked me.

Outside, the city slapped into my skin and blew me awake. I wandered down the road, along the pedestrian walkways, and into the market, passing stalls and small shops, cafes, restaurants, and multi-coloured people to suit all locations. I found myself a stranger in my own city, entering alleys and narrow streets I’d never ventured into before. It was Saturday night and the place was alive. This energy was a revelation to me. I’d been so wrapped up in myself and my private agonies that I’d forgotten there was a world out here to be enjoyed. I had lost months. Should I worry now about the loss of a Saturday night?

I thought I might choose some small bar with tables out on the pavement, and sit there, taking it all in, watching people come and go. I yearned for liberty, but shame was the greater emotion. So many months, so little accomplished. My conscience kept me moving. It kept me hoping that something would jar inside my head, and that I’d get one of those prophetic signs that we all pray for, the signal that tells us something … only we don’t always know what.

That’s when something did happen, and I did get the message.

I turned a corner and I lost my bearings. Not that it mattered, since I’d lost those long ago and wallowed in the self-pity of my self-imposed loss. I found myself standing, looking into the window of a dimly-lit shop. And in the semi-darkness, I saw a black, antique typewriter.

‘For Sale,’ it said, ‘one special owner.’

I pulled open the door and went in. A bell dinged. There was a man sitting behind a dark, veneered table that passed for a desk. He was turning the pages of a newspaper, his massive forearms covered in tattoos. A sliver of smoke rose from an oversized cigar in an ashtray by his side.

He looked up. ‘Hello, my friend,’ he said. ‘You need something?’

‘The typewriter,’ I said. ‘What’s special about it?’

He looked me up and down. He said, ‘It’s Hemingway’s. You know Hemingway?’

The Hemingway?’

‘Hemingway the writer.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘You know him?’ he said. He had a sourish, almost confrontational look on his face.

‘How do you know that?’ I said. ‘How do you know that it’s his?’

‘I know. Of course I know. I’m Cubano,’ he said. ‘You see the name of this shop? You see it? Cuban Curios. That’s the name and that’s what we got – Cuban curios.’

‘How much?

The man reached for his cigar, took a puff. ‘For the typewriter? Three hundred dollars.’

‘Way too much,’ I said, and I turned as if to make for the door.

‘You no have to buy it, my friend,’ he said, ‘but someone else will. You type on that…’ He gestured with the cigar towards the typewriter. ‘You type on that – you buying Hemingway. You buying… the spirit of Hemingway.’

‘That’s rot,’ I said.

For a split second the man’s eyes flared. Then they relaxed and he grinned, revealing a set of tightly-packed spindly yellow teeth. ‘Maybe you right, my friend,’ he said. ‘But I know how it work. You come here because you blocked. I see it before. Buy this, you not blocked no more.’ He took another puff of his cigar. Behind him some kind of moth-eaten animal – a gazelle, or an elk – something brown at any rate – leaned out from the wall and cast a shadow over his face.

‘You give me the money,’ he said. ‘You take the typewriter. You problems finish.’

I looked at the typewriter. How it shone. How it glowed. I wanted it. ‘Yeah, like I’ve got three hundred dollars in my pocket…’

‘I take Mastercard,’ said the man, and he reached below the table and pulled out a card machine.’

I stared at him. He stared back. Then he rattled his newspaper and continued reading.

‘Okay,’ I said, and I felt in my pockets for my card. ‘What about ribbons?’ I said. ‘Don’t I need ribbons?’

So, there I was, sitting facing the typewriter. I hadn’t much idea how it worked but I sure as Hell was going to find out. I pressed down the shift key and felt it lock. Then I pressed ‘H’ – ‘H’ for Hemingway – and it went down nice and easy, like pressing your finger into a sponge and, as it went down, the thin metal bar reared up. I let it drop and then I slid my hands across the keyboard, across his keys. They felt as though they had been moulded to the shape of my fingertips. His touch was mine now. The lights came on for me at that precise moment.

I wrote that night, the next day, the next night… and on and on. And when my agent called and said, ‘You’re paying back the advance tomorrow, Nick,’ I said, ‘No, I’m not.’ And she said, ‘You can’t tell me you’re done…’ And I said, ‘Oh but I can. I’m done.’

Three books later, I was still going. I went out for air one Sunday evening. Dark shadows hung under my eyes, my shoulders were hunched and painful, my joints – knees, wrists, elbows – swollen, my mouth and throat parched from the self-neglect of the obsessed.

Hemingway had a lot to answer for.

I walked down through the pedestrian walkway, along the alleys and semi-familiar streets. Curiosity drove me. I realised I was looking for the shop. It took some time, but I did find it. At first I didn’t recognise where I was. The light was negligible. The building was in darkness. There was a chill in the air. I shivered and looked up, searching for the sign. And there it was – Cuban Curios. I levelled my gaze at the shop window and gave a start. A face stared back at me from the glass. My own self reflected. I leaned in close to the window, cupping my hand over my eyes. And as my vision adjusted to the gloom inside the shop, a large dark object gained definition. I blinked. And there it was, glorious and shining. Hemingway’s typewriter.

I mean… how many did he have?

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‘Typewriter’ first appeared in the literary journal Jotters United in 2014.

Janet Olearski is a London-born author and writing coach, who lives in Central Portugal. Her short fiction has appeared in Constellate, Sleet Magazine, The Commonline JournalWasafiri, and elsewhere. A graduate of the Manchester Writing School at MMU, Janet is the author of the story collection A Brief History of Several Boyfriends, and the founder of the Abu Dhabi Writers’ Workshop. Find her at http://www.janetolearski.com   Twitter: @JanetOlearski

Getting Your Stories Published

Some words of encouragement for those of you who have been trying to get your work published.

Submitting stories for publication can be a long and thankless task, but it is immensely uplifting when a story is accepted. It means that someone has read your work and has, in a sense, validated it. One of my favourite stories: A Cure For Snakebites, was sent out a total of 30 times to different literary journals between 2011 and 2017. I re-wrote the story multiple times, but essentially the heart of it remained the same. I had a message to convey and somewhere the message was embedded in that story.  Sometimes when we start writing a story – or even when we have written the first few drafts – we are not sure what our story is about. We cling to that tale because our heart says we must.

I stuck with this story for that reason. I would take it out, re-read it, tweak it, and experience a range of ‘Aha!’ moments as I began to understand what it meant for me. The writer Dorothea Brande said, “Writing is re-writing.” We need to re-write in order to dig deeply and find out what is in the pit of our subconscious. So, don’t write your story and say that you are done with it after the first draft. Look again and you will see something new. 

For readers, our stories may have many different meanings. We can explain up to a point what we were trying to say, but ultimately it must be for the reader to search and find what they are looking for in that story.

A Cure For Snakebites was finally accepted on the 31st try, by the literary journal Litro at the beginning of 2017, and I later republished it under the title Charmed in the collection  A Brief History of Several Boyfriends.

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Part of the key to getting your stories published is finding the right match between your style of writing and the journal to which you are submitting. That means reading the material they publish to see if your story is likely to fit. Don’t submit at random. Your story, if you love it, deserves better than that.

 

Why you need to start writing yesterday

It may come as a shock to you to learn that you are not the only writer in the world, or in your country, or – indeed – in your neighbourhood. In fact, it would seem that every other person writes. I keep bumping into people who tell me, ‘Oh yes, I’ve written a novel.’

So, what’s the difference between one writer and the next?

Well, some writers are committed, and some are not. Some write every day, and until the sun goes down. Some have objectives, and some do not. Some prioritize their writing, and some drop tools to do other things… go out with friends, work late at the office, chat to people on social media. Yesterday they decided to write something, but today they’ve decided to go to a movie or to go out for a meal instead. You’ve got the idea. The writing isn’t going to happen.

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Meanwhile, you need to hear a few statistics. In the United States alone there are over 200 MFA writing programs (Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing). In 2016, more than 20,000 people applied to these programs. Every year these MFA courses produce 3,000 writing graduates. A few of these have some moderate successes. Many more go on to teach… usually on MFA programs.

In short, there’s a lot of competition out there. While you’re sitting around thinking that you might like to be a writer, and that you might start writing seriously tomorrow or the next day, you’ve actually already been left behind in the dust of others who are a whole lot faster and a whole lot more committed.

But, if you still want to be a writer, here are a few things you need to do:

  1. Give up your socializing.
  2. Decide what you want to write, and plan your writing projects.
  3. Commit to and prioritize your writing.
  4. Stop talking about what you’re going to write, and write.
  5. Read like a writer. In other words, read to learn.
  6. Keep writing until you’ve completed a first draft, however terrible that is.
  7. Rewrite and improve, using the ideas and insights gained from your reading.After that if you are still not making any progress, consider that writing may not be for you. Think about trying your hand at some other art form. How about painting?

Why you should stop exposing your clunky writing to the world

If you have the time, I strongly urge you to listen at least to the first half of this podcast from The Guardian newspaper of an interview with two traditionally published first-time authors.

What we learn, amongst other things, is how long it took these authors to write their books and the process they went through in the editing of them. One author spent three years on her book, the other seven years. One spent three months just doing a line edit of her novel, going painstakingly through the text with a ruler under each line, re-reading, correcting and adjusting. ‘Writers’ often hand me stories that they proudly tell me they finished just the night before… and, of course, it shows.

Another interesting piece of information from this podcast concerns the results of the last ALCS survey on author earnings in the UK. The average amount they earned was 11,000 GBP per year. This leads us to reflect on why we write and what we want from our writing. From talking to many would-be authors, I find that there is still a desire for and a belief in overnight success. Publication, they believe, will bring them the kind of glory and recognition that they are unlikely to find in other fields of work. What they do not put into the mix is that, for experienced critics and the discerning reader, the faults of their work will be on display for all to see. So, instead of showcasing their remarkable imagination and insights, they may well, through haste, and careless or the absence of editing, simply be demonstrating their ignorance and incompetence.

Everyone who can think can write, but not everyone who can write can produce work of quality. My advice for anyone publishing or hoping to publish traditionally or by self-publishing is 1) keep writing, 2) put in the work, 3) learn from your mistakes, 4) read books that have been professionally edited in order to learn, and 5) build your life around your writing, not your writing around your life.

Abu Dhabi Stories – Call for submissions

New York, London, Paris, Tokyo – these cities and many others have been the setting for stories of mystery, crime, adventure, love. We’d like you to call on your first-hand experience of the UAE to set your story in Abu Dhabi. This is a call for submissions to our upcoming short story anthology: Abu Dhabi Stories. Read on for further details.

IMG_2466Deadline: 30 November, 2018

Word Count: Minimum length 250 words. Maximum length 2,500 words.

Send to: adww2015@hotmail.com

Please read our ‘Information & Guidelines’ before submitting:

Information & Guidelines

 Your entry should

  • be fiction, and must have an Abu Dhabi theme or connection.
  • be between 250 and 2,500 words in length.
  • be in English.
  • have a title.

Format your story in Times New Roman, 12pt, with double-line spacing, and page numbers.

Type your word count in the top right-hand corner of page 1.

Label your Word document with the title of your story and your name, e.g., Great Expectations – Charles Dickens

Send your Word document entry to adww2015@hotmail.com You can enter a maximum of two stories.

Put Abu Dhabi Stories in the subject line of your e-mail

Submitting your work to the anthology is free, but you should be a member of our Abu Dhabi Writers’ Workshop Meet-Up group, and/or a member of The Abu Dhabi Writers’ Workshop Facebook group. If you are a former member, but have left the UAE, please join our Facebook group to keep in touch. Membership of both the Meet-Up group and the Facebook group is free. There is no charge for attendance at our Wednesday night workshops.

Address any queries about submissions by e-mail to Janet Olearski at adww2015@hotmail.com or in person to Kwame Dadson at our Wednesday workshops.

 

Solitude and the writer

Why do writers need silence and solitude?

Surely writers can write anywhere – in public places and in cafés, for example? Why would they even need to go to workshops or on writers’ retreats? Why can’t writers lock out their family and write in a room at home? Why do they complain when people make a noise and ‘disturb’ them?

Does contrived solitude work? Do writers produce more when they are alone, or when they are surrounded by others?

Your inner creative voice

Writers need just enough silence and solitude to listen to their inner creative voice. We have many inner voices and the worst, of course, is the one that beats you up for the things you haven’t done and should do. We’ve been taught to kill that voice. We’ve been taught to talk back to it and sort it out. Remember that book by Shad Helmstetter, What to say when you talk to your self? But, when slaughtering the bad voice, we need to take care not to lose the creative one. It’s down there somewhere, and your life as a writer is so much more difficult if you can’t hear it.

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Turning down the external volume

You go out, you have fun, you surround yourself with friends, you discuss, you argue, you tell jokes. Do all of that on a regular basis and there is way too much external noise. You will never hear the voice that has come up with a memory, an idea, a what-if, the description of a character, or an opening line to some story you haven’t thought of yet. So, you need to turn down the external volume and listen out for what that voice is saying.

Abu Dhabi, home to our Abu Dhabi Writers’ Workshop, is not the best of places to be a writer. There is something for you to see and do every evening of the week: a film screening, an exhibition opening, a musical performance, a play, a comedy show, a guest speaker, a debate, a dinner with friends. And after each of those activities, you are obliged to post photos of the event on social media to show that you were there along with the rest of the in-crowd, the people who are in the places that are trending.

But what about your writing? You won’t be hearing your inner creative voice with all that going on.

Solutions

There are various solutions. Some are drastic.

  • You could stop going out and do what you originally committed to do – write. At a writers’ conference, author Terry Pratchett once gave a plenary address entitled, ‘Why are you listening to me when you should be at home writing?’
  • You could give up writing. You may need to acknowledge that you are not sufficiently committed to writing to give up your social life and spend the necessary time drafting and re-drafting your work.
  • You could go to a writers’ workshop and find enough temporary focus to hear that voice and write for thirty or forty minutes. This can definitely get you started, though it is not a permanent solution. Your workshop will provide you with input and support, and it will give you that brief period of head space that you need to get some new ideas down on paper. To be a successful writer, however, you need to be able to write independently of your writers’ workshop. Did Dickens go to a writers’ workshop? Did Hemingway?

SolitudeDo not delude yourself. If you can’t write on your own – and that means being able to turn down the external volume to hear what’s in your head – you won’t be able to write in that expensive writers’ retreat or in that romantic garret in Paris.

 Listen

So, train yourself to be silent. Limit your socializing. If your socializing is full-time and your writing is supposed to be full-time, one of those is not going to work. Decide which it is to be. Find a time of day to think and write when there are fewer distractions, and let that creative voice filter through. Listen to it and then quickly write down everything it says.

If you can do this, you will never be short of ideas and you will become your own support system.

Lighting the blue touch paper

Once upon a time, when I thought of coaches, I thought of this:

Then, when I got a little older and anyone mentioned coach, I thought of this:

However I soon realised that actually a coach was one of these:

And then I discovered In Treatment and decided that a coach must be a person … someone very much like Gabriel Byrne:

But that’s not right either, is it? Gabriel is not a coach. He’s a psychotherapist, and he does a lot of analysing. He says things like:

‘Don’t you think that the feelings you’re having are linked to your dog’s rejection of you when you were just five years old … when, after licking your hand, your dog threw up … and after that you found that you could never relate to puppies … so, when your fiance brought you a present of a cute little puppy all dressed up with a blue satin ribbon, you saw this as an act of aggression …’

With apologies to any psychotherapists reading this – definitely no offence intended. But no, this is not what coaches say as I now know very well after spending time in the company of a very fine group of coaches this summer, courtesy of our sponsors NAWE (National Association of Writers in Education) and the Arvon Foundation, and our trainers Deb Barnard (Relational Dynamics 1st) and Anne Caldwell (NAWE).

So, to clarify, a little bit of information about coaching and how it can be applied to writing. I work as a coach with people from the arts and cultural industries and – in particular – with writers and artists who have to deal with issues such as prioritising, processing negative feedback, dealing with blocks, goal setting, overcoming limiting beliefs, defeating procrastination, dealing with stress, maintaining motivation, completing tasks, and developing confidence in their own abilities. As a writer myself, I have had to face many of these challenges. So, believe me, if you’re a writer too, I know what you go through on a daily basis.

As a Relational Dynamics coach, I help people to see ways of progressing with their work – and also their life – in ways that they may not have thought of. We all have our own answers to the challenges we face in life and work, but very often we don’t know where to look for those answers. I work with writers as well as clients in other fields, helping them to explore their goals, their current reality, their options and what they will commit to in order to achieve their goals … and when they will make that commitment.

Where appropriate I combine my coaching skills with NLP, facilitating the client’s own self-directed learning and development and helping them to gain clarity around what it is that they want: the client already has the answers, but has to find them out through a personal reflective process. In working with students and young people my aim is to help them achieve their full learning potential.

Through the Abu Dhabi Writers’ Studio I offer guidance on how to develop as a writer, think creatively, enhance writing techniques, build writing confidence, and establish and achieve writing goals. Many writers I encounter have side-stepped from successful working lives to take up a new interest and direction in the world of writing. Often their talent has almost gone to waste due to friends and family not taking their efforts seriously, or due to lack of feedback or simply not knowing what to do next. Through a variety of workshop activities, the Abu Dhabi Writers’ Studio supports these writers from the writing stage through to constructive feedback, to redrafting and to submission for publication.

For practising writers who have work in progress, we have … well … the Work In Progress writers’ group, meeting weekly to write, to read and discuss their work and to exchange ideas about the writing life.

For further details about the Abu Dhabi Writers’ Studio and Work In Progress, you can mail me at AllWriteInAbuDhabi@gmail.com

And now, just a final word of clarification. Yes, I am a coach … but I absolutely do not work here:

Though, who knows? It’s probably a very good place to find inspiration. Don’t rule it out.