Read Online Fearless Hope: A Novel by Serena B. Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Serena B. Miller
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background noise. He found the muted sounds comforting. They helped him relax and concentrate. His writing routine then involved stopping, eating a quick lunch in front of the TV. When he had been at his best, he had always taken a long walk so that his body would not atrophy. Then a fifteen-minute nap to ease the switch from creative brain to analytical brain. The afternoon was spent self-editing, doing research, answering e-mails, writing blogs, doing PR, and dealing with the business of being a full-time writer. He broke from that only when Marla got home from her job. Then they would go out to dinner and come home to watch television until they fell asleep.
He was ashamed of the loneliness he was experiencing now. He had never realized before just how much television supplied his need for human interaction. Or how much he had depended emotionally on Marla’s coming home each night.
After the fourth attempt to write a complete sentence without breaking out in a sweat, he gave up and put the laptop away. He was in even worse shape than he had thought. Perhaps Marla was right. Maybe he did need a shrink.
chapter S EVEN
H e was wasting time wandering around, poking through an antiques shop he’d noticed in Mt. Hope. He was loafing again, since it didn’t seem like he had a choice in the matter. Right now, he was fairly certain that he couldn’t force himself to write even if one of his characters held a gun to his head.
He was certainly not a stranger to antiques stores. Marla sometimes dragged him along with her while hunting for unique items to use in her decorating business.
This particular antiques store was better than average. Higher-end items. These things were not just old, they had been expensive before they became antiques. Even Marla would have approved. He made a mental note to bring her here when she came to visit.
The place resembled a Victorian home more than a store. He had almost missed the weathered sign halfway hidden behind the lilac bush.
They had quite a collection of old books. Many of them were religious, which did not surprise him, considering his geographical location. It stood to reason that in a town that practically rolled up its sidewalks on Sunday, there would belots of religious books. He stood looking at the confusing array of titles and shook his head. When it came to religious books, he had no idea how to tell which one might have value and which one would not.
That’s how he felt about organized religion in general. He sometimes longed for the comfort of faith, but how on earth could one ever discern truth from fiction? The good and honest from the bad and dishonest?
Something caught his eye on the top shelf: a slender, dark-grained leather case with a latch. He pulled it down, finding it surprisingly heavy. He laid it on a round, claw-foot table near the window, flipped the latch, and lifted the cover.
To his surprise, nestled inside the case was a maroon red, jewel-like, portable typewriter, unlike any that he had ever seen. The ribbon appeared to be intact. He gave one key an experimental tap and was pleased with the smooth action.
The noise brought the proprietor, an elderly woman who looked entirely too fragile to be working at a job. She resembled an old-fashioned librarian, birdlike in her frailty, her gray hair in a classic bun. He judged her to be in her very late eighties or early nineties.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she said. “Ever since my nephew brought it here from an estate sale I wished it could talk. I think it would have quite a lot of interesting stories to tell.”
“What do you know about it?” he asked.
“That’s a portable 1934 Smith & Corona Super-Speed Silent. The family said it once belonged to a relative who was a newspaper correspondent during World War II. It was quite expensive in its time, and considered to be of the highest quality.”
“It’s beautiful.” He ran his hand over the smooth, glass-like finish.
“I can find you a
He was ashamed of the loneliness he was experiencing now. He had never realized before just how much television supplied his need for human interaction. Or how much he had depended emotionally on Marla’s coming home each night.
After the fourth attempt to write a complete sentence without breaking out in a sweat, he gave up and put the laptop away. He was in even worse shape than he had thought. Perhaps Marla was right. Maybe he did need a shrink.
chapter S EVEN
H e was wasting time wandering around, poking through an antiques shop he’d noticed in Mt. Hope. He was loafing again, since it didn’t seem like he had a choice in the matter. Right now, he was fairly certain that he couldn’t force himself to write even if one of his characters held a gun to his head.
He was certainly not a stranger to antiques stores. Marla sometimes dragged him along with her while hunting for unique items to use in her decorating business.
This particular antiques store was better than average. Higher-end items. These things were not just old, they had been expensive before they became antiques. Even Marla would have approved. He made a mental note to bring her here when she came to visit.
The place resembled a Victorian home more than a store. He had almost missed the weathered sign halfway hidden behind the lilac bush.
They had quite a collection of old books. Many of them were religious, which did not surprise him, considering his geographical location. It stood to reason that in a town that practically rolled up its sidewalks on Sunday, there would belots of religious books. He stood looking at the confusing array of titles and shook his head. When it came to religious books, he had no idea how to tell which one might have value and which one would not.
That’s how he felt about organized religion in general. He sometimes longed for the comfort of faith, but how on earth could one ever discern truth from fiction? The good and honest from the bad and dishonest?
Something caught his eye on the top shelf: a slender, dark-grained leather case with a latch. He pulled it down, finding it surprisingly heavy. He laid it on a round, claw-foot table near the window, flipped the latch, and lifted the cover.
To his surprise, nestled inside the case was a maroon red, jewel-like, portable typewriter, unlike any that he had ever seen. The ribbon appeared to be intact. He gave one key an experimental tap and was pleased with the smooth action.
The noise brought the proprietor, an elderly woman who looked entirely too fragile to be working at a job. She resembled an old-fashioned librarian, birdlike in her frailty, her gray hair in a classic bun. He judged her to be in her very late eighties or early nineties.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she said. “Ever since my nephew brought it here from an estate sale I wished it could talk. I think it would have quite a lot of interesting stories to tell.”
“What do you know about it?” he asked.
“That’s a portable 1934 Smith & Corona Super-Speed Silent. The family said it once belonged to a relative who was a newspaper correspondent during World War II. It was quite expensive in its time, and considered to be of the highest quality.”
“It’s beautiful.” He ran his hand over the smooth, glass-like finish.
“I can find you a
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