An Old Typewriter Poem by Paula Glynn

I remember my old typewriter:
I used to write my stories on it,
And I would create and build new worlds with words.
This was before computers, of course,
And I still have those stories, for I am very creative,
I have to be, as I've read a lot,
And have a vast imagination,
And how I loved sitting there, typing away,
For this may have been yesterday, but it was real,
And my work has proved popular,
For I would type away and within a few hours,
I'd have a hundred or so pages of the printed word,
For I had a voice that wanted to be heard,
And I don't regret those hours spent at the typewriter,
Because, even today, people are reading my work,
Writing is much the same process as it was back then,
It's just a case of hammering at the keys,
And letting one's muse take control,
A bit like a pianist or violinist at their instrument,
But it isn't the actual instrument that matters:
It is how you play it, and words may be words,
But it is the order they are in,
The way they are put together,
It all has to be aesthetically pleasing and easy to read,
And a little imagination goes a very long way,
For there is more to a love story than a broken heart,
There is more to a crime thriller than a few gun shots,
It is a case of adding a love interest,
And a gangster with a conscience.
And you can write about Christmas and Easter,
Telling of whatever takes your fancy,
About these celebratory seasons,
And you could write of ghosts and goblins in the woods at night,
It is all relative, and all areas can be explored,
There are worlds within worlds, there're real life people,
And characters,
And it doesn't matter whether it is explored,
At a computer screen, or years back at a typewriter:
It is about designing a world; designing a story,
Inside your own brain, your mind your instrument.