I really should put it away. All it does is remind me that I’m not the man he was, and probably never will be.
He fought in a war. He raised a family. He covered news stories under threat of death, and wrote several books on this typewriter that he left me in his will, which now sits on the bookshelf.
No one is shooting at me, literally or figuratively. No one is depending on my to write this book I know I have in me but can’t pry out of the cobwebbed corners of my mind. I have computers and machines that he would have killed for. I tried, just for fun, to type a page on his typewriter. My forearms were burning and my fingertips were numb at the end, my page full of typos. Even in typing, he was three times the man I’ll ever be.
What are my excuses when compared to someone like him? They’re lame. I’m lame.
I remember telling him that I wanted to be a writer, like him. I remember him smiling at me, telling me that he’d be honored to have me walking in his footsteps.
He died before I wrote anything I’d want him to read.
Now, his ghost fills the room. His typewriter sits, collecting dust. I remind myself that I’m my own man. That he wouldn’t want me to suffer.
And so, I begin again. Again.