Over the last few years I have gained an affinity for reading and writing. In particular, the classic 'Mediterranean Noir' mystery and detective stories which really hold my attention. I don't have much time to read these days but I have tried to set aside time to take in a good detective story on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Last year I began writing my own little novella titled "The Reach of the Wicked". Writing one's first book I found is something of a love/hate relationship, always pushing towards the end but ultimately finding something along the way that needed changing or amending.
I suppose that is the nature of writing.
While I make no claims that my first novella is actually any good, or worthy of reading - I am proud I managed to finish the work. I've read it over a few times and it's become a nice little enjoyable reminder of the days when I was in the midst of writing the story line and developing the plot lines. Writing I believe is becoming a nice little outlet for me outside of photography, having experienced the joys and frustrations of both now.
I remember growing up we had a large, bulky brown typewriter sitting atop a desk where occasionally I would hear my mother tapping away at the keys. I never realized back then that thirty years later I would go out seeking my own little piece of nostalgia to write on.
Alas, this past week I found myself miracously coming across a beautiful piece of classic Italian design.
The internet - a vast and cavernous array of all things "sell- able".
Needless to say once I saw this beauty I snagged it immediately from the willing buyer. That night I sat back admiring my newly acquired piece of history from 1950, adorned with just the right amount of nostalgia and intrigue one hopes to expect from something 78 years old.
I thought to myself .. "what stories this machine has told over the years" ...
Now being the owner of such a fantastic machine - I must be careful.
I might actually think of myself as a writer one day.