Nails

There’s something so intimidating about returning to writing after a hiatus. Over the years I’ve had so many thoughts and ideas, so many instances where I’d say to myself, “this would make a great piece, I need to write this down.” I’ve had to push those ideas into the corners of my brain. Yet for some reason, I want this little memoir to be better than the things I’ve written in the past, even though I’ve been out of practice since the start of my marriage.

My husband hated this hobby of mine. When we were dating, he saw it as more of a distraction for me; I would sit outside in a cute little sundress, with my pink notebook and a pen with a flower on the end. At night I would take my pink notebook over to the typewriter and let my long, painted nails tap away. It was something for me to do while he was at “work,” that is, when he was playing around on GarageBand. But, as time went on, I was getting publications and paychecks, while no musicians wanted to work with his “original sounds,” (the premade noises that come free with the installation arranged in a random order).

He decided that the reason why he wasn’t able to come up with anything amazing is because I don’t support him enough. I should be out working a real job, not just sitting around writing all day, so we could afford the premium GarageBand noises and better internet for him to get no emails faster. I should also be cooking for him, the processed food we’ve been eating is definitely stunting his creativity. And obviously I need to be doing his chores so he has time to focus.

One thing led to another, and suddenly I was living a life where it was impossible for me to express myself. My pink notebook was fed to the fireplace and the typewriter, this typewriter, was put in my husband's office, where his watchful eye constantly was. I don’t exactly know how it all happened, but I’ll make sure to ask my case worker at my next session.

The important thing is, I have my typewriter back, and I’m eager to get started. But do I even know how to write anymore? The fireplace ate my old ideas, and I’ve spent the last few years suppressing all of my new ones. I’m worried that I’ve lost my connection to the words, to the world, to this typewriter. It’s impossible to revive something when it’s been burned into ashes.

But the typewriter reassures me. As I sit here, tapping away with my short, bare nails, it’s talking to me, cheering me on. The faster I type, the louder it becomes. I may not remember every idea I’ve had that was lost, but my typewriter remembers me. It hugs my fingers in a way that feels like a lifelong friend embracing me.

I can’t wait to talk to my old friend about everything that went on, about my husband’s unfair treatment, about how I’ve missed them.