Read Online Fearless Hope: A Novel by Serena B. Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Serena B. Miller
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up her hopeful perch on the stool beside the old-fashioned brass cash register.
He was vaguely aware that people came and went in the store, but he was too busy playing with his new toy to be bothered by them. The few customers seemed to realize that he needed to be left alone.
After a while he stopped typing, pushed back his chair, and blinked. He had been deeply immersed in the story world he had been creating. Surrounded by antique furniture and doilies, he had been transported to an entirely different time, and the words had simply poured out of him.
The paragraphs were filled with typos and strikeovers, but the antique instrument had caused a WWII story to begin to form the minute she had told him about its history. He felt, as he sat there, as though he were the correspondent who once carried and used this machine. His few years working as a wet-behind-the-ears journalist on the streets of New York City had given him some insight into what it might be like to be a young war correspondent who was scared silly, but equally determined to make one’s mark on the world. He could also imagine this lovely older lady as the beautiful young woman she must have been as she climbed behind the controls of a bomber. What courage that must have taken!
He took a rest and read over what he had written. It was good. A little different from the stories he was known for, but good.
He walked around the table, nervous as a cat, putting his hands in his pockets and then on top of his head. Could something as simple as an antique typewriter be the key to opening up the well of creativity within him that had gone dry?
Authors are every bit as superstitious as professional athletes. Most have their little rituals, favorite candles, special writing socks, certain music. One writer he knew could write only with a pet parrot sitting on top of her head.
On the left-hand side of the maroon typewriter were five completed pages. It was satisfying to see his work lying there in such a tangible form. He seldom bothered to print out pages from his computer. They went straight from his keyboard to his editor, electronic submissions so insubstantial that months of his life could be deleted with a keystroke.
“May I?” the old woman asked, indicating the pages of writing.
“Be my guest.”
For some reason, it felt like the very first time he had ever allowed someone to read his work. The same new-writer nervousness. Would she like it? Would she laugh? Cry? Be bored? Criticize?
She did none of these things. Instead, she read to the end and then looked up at him almost in wonder.
“Where did you learn to write like this?”
• • •
He had not told anyone in Holmes County what he did for a living. Fame created a wall once people knew who he was, and he did not want to erect that wall between himself and this sweet lady. He just wanted to be treated like everyone else . . . and write.
For the first time in ages, he just wanted to write!
“My name is Logan Parker,” he said. “I—I just like to dabble.”
Actually, that was pretty close to the truth. “Dabbling” was an exaggeration, considering how little he had actually written these past few weeks.
She looked deeply into his eyes. “You should be a writer, young man,” she said. “You have a gift. And it is a sin to waste such a God-given talent.”
Her attempt at encouragement brought a lump to his throat. It took him back to when he first began to write—when the dream had been fresh and clean and not sullied by the realities of trying to move massive quantities of books.
“I’d like to purchase this typewriter.” He reached for his wallet. “How much?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she cocked her head to one side. “I don’t believe I shall sell it to you.”
He noticed a price tag, handwritten in an old person’s unsteady hand, dangling from the handle. It read $300.00.
He pulled out his wallet and tried to hand her three one-hundred-dollar bills,
He was vaguely aware that people came and went in the store, but he was too busy playing with his new toy to be bothered by them. The few customers seemed to realize that he needed to be left alone.
After a while he stopped typing, pushed back his chair, and blinked. He had been deeply immersed in the story world he had been creating. Surrounded by antique furniture and doilies, he had been transported to an entirely different time, and the words had simply poured out of him.
The paragraphs were filled with typos and strikeovers, but the antique instrument had caused a WWII story to begin to form the minute she had told him about its history. He felt, as he sat there, as though he were the correspondent who once carried and used this machine. His few years working as a wet-behind-the-ears journalist on the streets of New York City had given him some insight into what it might be like to be a young war correspondent who was scared silly, but equally determined to make one’s mark on the world. He could also imagine this lovely older lady as the beautiful young woman she must have been as she climbed behind the controls of a bomber. What courage that must have taken!
He took a rest and read over what he had written. It was good. A little different from the stories he was known for, but good.
He walked around the table, nervous as a cat, putting his hands in his pockets and then on top of his head. Could something as simple as an antique typewriter be the key to opening up the well of creativity within him that had gone dry?
Authors are every bit as superstitious as professional athletes. Most have their little rituals, favorite candles, special writing socks, certain music. One writer he knew could write only with a pet parrot sitting on top of her head.
On the left-hand side of the maroon typewriter were five completed pages. It was satisfying to see his work lying there in such a tangible form. He seldom bothered to print out pages from his computer. They went straight from his keyboard to his editor, electronic submissions so insubstantial that months of his life could be deleted with a keystroke.
“May I?” the old woman asked, indicating the pages of writing.
“Be my guest.”
For some reason, it felt like the very first time he had ever allowed someone to read his work. The same new-writer nervousness. Would she like it? Would she laugh? Cry? Be bored? Criticize?
She did none of these things. Instead, she read to the end and then looked up at him almost in wonder.
“Where did you learn to write like this?”
• • •
He had not told anyone in Holmes County what he did for a living. Fame created a wall once people knew who he was, and he did not want to erect that wall between himself and this sweet lady. He just wanted to be treated like everyone else . . . and write.
For the first time in ages, he just wanted to write!
“My name is Logan Parker,” he said. “I—I just like to dabble.”
Actually, that was pretty close to the truth. “Dabbling” was an exaggeration, considering how little he had actually written these past few weeks.
She looked deeply into his eyes. “You should be a writer, young man,” she said. “You have a gift. And it is a sin to waste such a God-given talent.”
Her attempt at encouragement brought a lump to his throat. It took him back to when he first began to write—when the dream had been fresh and clean and not sullied by the realities of trying to move massive quantities of books.
“I’d like to purchase this typewriter.” He reached for his wallet. “How much?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she cocked her head to one side. “I don’t believe I shall sell it to you.”
He noticed a price tag, handwritten in an old person’s unsteady hand, dangling from the handle. It read $300.00.
He pulled out his wallet and tried to hand her three one-hundred-dollar bills,
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