When I type I sometimes imagine I am on the piano, in a romantic era, composing something magnificent. A lot of what we do, how we do it, depends upon approach. To me this is a creative process before a creative process, framing the mind for my work ahead. I might imagine that I am captain of a ship. I know that there at forces at work beyond my control, and I must surrender to the great sea. Yet one takes great pleasure in knowing that one has a responsibility of such magnitude, even that there may be lives at stake, and it affords little room for error. With this sort of attitude, a small room and a table by myself can became quite a large happenstance to which I am beholden, to which I will call upon all my whole storehouse of knowledge and experience to bring my wisdom to bear upon the page. Upon the paragraph. Upon the sentence. Upon the word. Upon letter by crisp, clean letter. Black keys situated between and above the off-white keys. Each key desires an expression, tripping a wire to evoke a sound. The memory I have to locate each letter. The response of each key to the pressure of my fingertips. The unseen residue of an oily fingeprint differentiated from all other fingerprints. What I leave on the table. The felt which silences the key so the string can sound alone. And what is this sound? A vibration! And what is this happenstance of incomparably quick composition at so many words per minute? Nothing if not a rhythm translated from the vibrations in my soul. And what are these spaces between, if not sacred?
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