An author sits alone at his old fashioned typewriter and considers his circumstances seriously. He’s been writing and publishing the old fashioned way for a long time now. He’s made it his business. There are those who have a bunch of newfangled ideas, who like to do a lot of talking. For that matter, maybe he’ll publish this thought as a story, and maybe he won’t.
He’ll have to cogitate on it awhile, as he verbalizes this whole mess on paper.
He’s beset by some woman who thinks she wants him, whose major deficiency is English composition, with an attitude. She’s figured out how to use her cell phone and do research on the internet. Trouble is, she’s offended to get a love letter in the mail. Poor guy writes everything. That’s how he deals with life. He’s got a manual typewriter. It’s just part of who he is.
His whole world is writing.
The author sits at his clunky old typewriter and hammers away, thinking all the while. It’s not so strange, if you think about it. Hemingway used one. It’s just that the old technology is more familiar to him, in his odd world, devoid of microchips. Never mind the newer technology, or the idea that the woman is offended by his writing. The author can’t stop writing for some darned woman.
What he’s done is never bought a firearm, and put the plug in the jug.
If Hemingway had done those two things, he wouldn’t be sitting in Hell by now. The author hammers away, with his strong fingers and brute force, trying to get his thoughts down and out of him. There’s something very physical about an old manual. These days, everyone’s using either a desktop or a laptop. He’s heard of them, but the author is just old fashioned enough to rely on a manual.
It’s what he’s had to work with all his life, so he’ll take it from there.
The other thing is that the author is accustomed to living without a woman, whether he’s wanted to or not. He’s been doing without a woman for the better part of a lifetime by now. Old habits are hard to break. Alone for most of his life, he doesn’t feel he owes anything to anybody, to bend over backwards to satisfy them, when they’ve all rejected him.
This one has rejected him, too.
He figures, if he starts satisfying a woman now, he’ll never hear the end of it. Where were all the blasted women in the world, when the worst of his appetites were nagging at him? Why put one’s self out, when the whole world treats him like some kind of monster? He knows this therapist who counsels him to leave home and move in with this woman. The guy’s a romantic.
What does his therapist want? That he should make out, like some kind of kid?
The author remembers his dad, how the old man was always taking it easy, no matter what the author’s mom said. Thinking back on it, it would seem that his mom should have known to ease up on the old man. Poor man couldn’t seem to get it together for his family or his marriage. His dad wasn’t a drinker, he just had a problem holding onto a job. They used to call that lazy.
These days they call it disabled.
The old man was one of those people the doctors couldn’t understand.
There wasn’t any such thing as having a disability, to justify a person’s incapacity.
Now, a man can at least call himself an author. That idea seems to be enough, as long as he can keep the wolves from the door. But there was a day that kind of behavior wouldn’t float. His mom got so tired of making do on nothing, she started throwing dishes against the wall, throw a fit. Couldn’t hardly blame her. She was yelling and screaming about how his dad needed to get a job.
Then there was the day the author himself was a young man in love. There was this girl who wanted him to make her his wife and the mother of his children. The girl was all lovey dove-y. Our author was thinking it over, while she showered him with kisses. All of a sudden the author got so he couldn’t justify making out with her.
Abruptly, he broke off with her, sitting right there.
The author never got another opportunity.
He figured breaking her heart early was just a little damage control. He’d set her free, and let her come back to him. He would’ve figured he found a woman who could be trusted with his own illness, like his father’s. He had all the oddities and idiosyncrasies that anyone with a chemical imbalance has to deal with. But she didn’t come back. She went on her way.
That’s not what the song says.
They’d been quite the couple in their day.
He thought he’d done the noble thing, developing gainful employment and being of docile disposition. At least he wasn’t setting out to be rough with the girl. That’s more than the old man was able to say. The author found his own childhood traumatic, getting whipped for nothing whatsoever, and whatnot. Then there was this young lady recently.
It was almost too much for him to trust any woman.
The author changed the paper in his manual often enough to realize he was going on about things too much. Most of the paper went into the trash can. What a waste. He stopped typing and just sat there, thinking, trying to reach the least common denominator of what was going on. He knew. He’d broken up with that young woman because he was scared.
It came down to fear.
One thing always happens to him is that his typing becomes atrocious, whenever he tries to journal. It’s automatic. It had been frightening to the author when the young lady at school had tried a little romance on him. No, make that terrifying. It always harkens back to his parents’ dysfunctional marriage. This woman these days would walk blindly into the same trap.
She makes some insinuation and that’s that.