Hi! I’m the typist. I used to be a copywriter / producer in advertising, but that was a paying job. This is strictly for the fun of painting with words.
These days, I call myself a typist because it’s a good description of my role here. I don’t use a pencil very often or a pen, either. If I do write something — like a check or a grocery list — I find my penmanship skills have deteriorated so badly I’m forced to print. Like a first grader. How, in good conscience, can I call myself a writer? Well, I can’t — it’s misleading. Besides, typist is a fine title, very outré, and I’m proud to claim it.
I mostly go by whirly, though.
You’d think, after all this time, I’d have nothing left to type about. Frankly, I’ve wondered the same thing. Do I? Let’s find out, shall we? Let’s put me to the test. I promise, if I get even a whiff of stale, hackneyed work, I’ll quit typing altogether and slink away into the night. I mean it, I don’t do mundane. (Or so I tell myself.)
I do the ill-advised. The self-incriminating. The where-did-that-come-from? The huh? That’s where the fun is. And as long as my feet can wander as aimlessly as my mind, I’ll never run out of things to type about.
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