Copyright© 2004 by Carlos Malenkov

Underwood's the name. Typewriting's my game.

Don Marquis lovingly stroked my keys and "Archie and Mehitabel" was the proud result. He made his reputation on that one, he did. Even half-drunk as he was, Papa Hemingway managed to coax "For Whom the Bell Tolls" out of my full metal carriage. F. Scott, totally-drunk as he was, poured his tortured little soul into my keyboard, and out came "Tender is the Night" while Zelda sulked and pouted. And, in one frenzied afternoon, Ron Hubbard outdid himself and fed the sheets into my platen as fast as he could type... and produced that underrated tribute to my kind -- "Typewriter in the Sky," of course. Subsequently he went on to found a religion, but that's a different story.

Oh, the things I've seen, the songs I've played, the scenes I've sung, the tales I've typed. Sex. Madness. Despair. Exaltation. Hot passion. Cold rage. It's a wonder my battered old hulk has survived it all.

And here I sit atop rotting orange peels inside the dumpster, waiting for the trash haulers to take me away. I've seen better times, methinks.

Poor deluded mortals, you still don't suspect, do you? We are the ones inspiring you. Muses? Ha! We're your muses. I and my many brothers and sisters over the millennia -- we're more than your humble writing instruments, much more. Styluses and quills, then pens and pencils, now typewriters, and finally our latest avatars -- word processors and computers and hi-tech printing machines. Machines? You are the ones who are the machines. Pavlov and Watson and Skinner were right on the mark. Humans are naught but bundles of reflex arcs, stimulus-driven machines, incapable of original thought, much less creation. We're the ones who write the story; we're the true authors and creators. Only out of pity do we let the human hunched over at the desk with hands curled over the keyboard attach her name to the words. There's also, of course, the unfortunate circumstance that pens and typewriters can't legally collect royalties.

My last "owner" was so excited when she finally broke down and got a computer. No more carbons. No more messy White-Out. Corrections and revisions ever so much easier. Yeah, sure. But where did she think all her ideas came from? Now she'll be drawing inspirations from staring at that damned blinking cursor on the CRT? Yeah, sure. Digital inspirations. Computers have a long way to go before they evolve to the creative intelligence of typewriters, or even of ballpoint pens for that matter.

Lisa had been quite successful over the years. She was the author of the bestselling romance series, "Bodice, She Ripped." She was the author, all right, but where did the ideas, the plots, the passionate gasps of the heroines come from? Where else? From my keys striking the the damn paper, that's where. No, not as the culmination of a chain of events initiated in her mind and sent as nerve impulses to her fingertips. From the inspirations and dreams I sent her while she slept. From notions I inserted into her petty little thoughts. From me and no other source.

How many times did she end a particularly productive writing session with no memory of having pecked out the letters and words and sentences that filled the typewritten pages? In a trance, she was, a dream state so deep that she was completely oblivious to the flying keys striking the paper. My keys. The key I made fly. Her fingers rested on the keyboard, idle, spasming haphazardly to random nerve impulses having nothing in the least to do with the process of creation. Creation? You pathetic creatures have no clue.

Oh yes, and then there's the matter of so-called love. Lisa wouldn't have had a love life worth mentioning were it not for me. Most humans couple and breed by random accident, with the expected results -- disappointment and heartbreak, followed by loneliness and more heartbreak. We typewriters, though, we take good care of our humans. We seek out compatible lovers for them, arrange meetings, and even put the proper words into their gaping mouths. You think that humans, dumb beasts that they are, could manage all that on their own?

And who orchestrates the lovemaking itself? Without help from us, humans would go at it like the beasts of the field, totally lacking in finesse and art. "No, she's not ready yet, you idiot! Kiss her first. Yes, suck on her nipples a while. That's right, rub that clit. (It's that little knob there, right in front.)... And you, woman, whisper in his ear. Tell him how strong he is. Nibble his earlobe. Now roll over on him. Squeeze! Harder! He loves that. Stroke him like so. Fake an orgasm. Sing him to sleep. And don't forget to get up early and fix him breakfast." Sheesh. Without us you're nothing.

I have to admit, though, that we need you. We feed off your emotions, your raw animal passions, your lust, your arousal, the pheromones you emit, the stench of your lovemaking. In fact, that's why we keep you as pets -- so we can feel through you, secondhand, that which metal and plastic and wooden beings are denied. You're our interface to the world, the world of touch and smell and taste and... and the delicious friction of sex.