I finished reading the first draft. It was an unusual experience. It felt so familiar, and yet I learned new things – even new words – from my own writing. It was peculiar, being able to read a book and rewrite it on the spot if needed. There were (few) moments I stopped in frustration; other times I ended up thoroughly elated.
I was prepared to hate it all. I didn’t. The beginning needs to be rewritten, and there are many rough edges. But the book didn’t feel boring, or long, or confused. It came together as a whole. I felt proud of it.
But whether this is good or bad, I have no idea.
Here’s a confession. I’m not actually writing it on the 48. I can’t. I broke it while attempting to fix it. Turns out, trying to glue together a broken-in-transit spacebar is harder than it seems. Turns out, using toothpaste to make metal more shiny makes that toothpaste go inside the mechanism and clog the entire thing. Turns out, electric typewriters are much more complicated and deserve much more respect than I gave them.