A typewriter is, all in all, a rather antediluvian machine to imprint man’s thoughts onto sheets of paper.  Yet I find it to be an incredibly romantic machine; though I have yet to lay my trembling fingertips on the metal keys and listen to the peals of clacking that emit from it, I find myself constantly thinking about it, wondering where in the United States it currently is as it travels homeward.

Now, many have asked, what in the world is the point of the typewriter? and to this I have only been able to produce a sheepish smile and an incoherent response.  It is not so much the pragmatic reason for buying it as it is the romantic notion of having the capability of sitting in my room with a cup of tea and an open window from which I can gaze out into the vast expanse of sky and meditate on what words I am about to impress upon the patient paper.

In its romanticism lays its unique value in my eyes; for esoteric reasons, I simply desire to have a typewriter.  Though the notion of a typewriter having any sort of romantic quality to it may be absurd to linguists who study the essence of the romantic movement in literature, it is because of individuals such as myself that the English language continues to evolve, with more and more forms of quasi-prose poetic pieces springing up from the earthy soil.

Indeed, having a typewriter is of the utmost importance to me in this specific juncture of time.  However, how important is it for me to have God?  Sometimes, I feel that I let myself be carried away by the tide of what this world has to offer, and soon I forget the One who has delivered me from all sin and continually intercedes for me in heaven.  Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who came to Earth in man’s lowly body and accomplished things with man’s body that none before could and none after was able to do.  It is also the Holy Spirit who infuses me with the supply to write more and more and improve in increments.  But, really, how important is having God to me?  This question alone is what we must continually ask I feel, as too often we flex our own muscles, not realizing that our muscles were already crafted in heaven and made in the likeness of God Himself, coursing with godly strength.

What have we to offer that is more than what God can offer.  If anyone has the nerve to say that he can compete, nay, contend with God in His works, I laugh without mirth in wonder at his folly.  How great is the arrogance of man!  Should He desire, He can expand the true proportion of the universe in relation to man before man’s eyes, and man will certainly bow down and realize that he is facing his Creator, he will realize that he is but a speck of dust in the time continuum, and he will see the utter lack of space that he actually has control over.

And so I also see many writers who claim their own merits.  I must admit, I was one of this type.  But I am no longer, for I too have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I that live, but Christ liveth in me! And the life I live now in the flesh, I live in faith, the faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.  I cannot but contribute my successes to my Lord, and I cannot but claim my failures as my own selfish desire to achieve more than what God predetermined.

So now, to all other believing writers, I present a solemn challenge: though of present, I desire a typewriter, I know in myself that I desire God more. I cling to my faith in Christ as the only source of my craft and talent; I am a Christ-type-writer.  What type of writer are you?

– W.L.