When I turned three, my parents asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I said a typewriter. It may seem like an odd thing for a three-year-old to request, but whenever we would visit my dad's office at the chapel, he would let me play on the typewriter. He would put some blank paper in, and I would tap out rows and rows of letters—no spaces—forming great unreadable stories. I would watch, fascinated, as the typing ball came up and marked the paper with the exact letter I had chosen. I loved the sound of it and the feel of it and the knowledge that I could create something real.
When my birthday came around, I opened up my presents to find a Fisher Price typewriter. It was yellow. Plastic. Instead of a keyboard, it had three pieces of molded plastic to look like keys. If you tried to press a key, a third of the keyboard moved with it. There was no place for paper, no typing ball with letters all over it, no fantastic typing sound.
Thanks, guys.
Can you imagine what might have happened if they had given me a real typewriter at the age of three? I could have developed a love for the written word early on. Maybe I would have published my first novel by now. Or become a journalist. Or a... blogger.
I have resolved not to blog about blogging.
Therefore, I will not write what I have just written.