Last Saturday's trip to a neighborhood flea market (well, really a grotty old house filled with junk for sale) yielded the best. find. ever. Well, possibly not ever, but still pretty darn awesome nonetheless. I am now the proud owner of a vintage Royal typewriter.
Sure, it reeks that old-dust smell, one of the handles is missing and the roller is cracked, but the glass side panels are intact and it emanates sit-down-and-type-something-brilliant. It looks so pretty sitting on the flowery yellow tablecloth in the dining room. And it's been enticing me to write more (a short story/skeleton novel and a poem--my first in months).
This blog needs more pictures (meaning pictures of my typewriter), which I will get to posthaste. By which I mean as soon as I procure batteries for a camera.
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