Ravyn stared at the white paper which was pressed against the platen roller by the bail bar.
They’d gotten a manual typewriter because it felt like the way to be least distracted when writing, but even still, the white paper continued to stare back at them.
On the computer, every key press could instantly be erased, and so Ravyn found themself constantly thinking and rethinking, editing, re-editing, deleting entire sections, then grinding to a halt because the next word had to be absolutely perfect or it wasn’t worth it.
Surely, they’d thought: A manual typewriter would force the issue. Erasing text on a manual typewriter was no easy task; the typebar impressed the ribbon’s ink onto the paper with intimidating force, and even with correction ink, there was still the trace of the embossed letter. Mistakes would become part of the process, and they would linger there, reminders that perfection was elusive and need not be the immediate goal.
Instead, though, the permanence of it all preyed on Ravyn even more than before: Now, perfection had to be attained before a single key was struck, lest… what? That’s what they couldn’t answer for themself: What was the harm in fallability? Certainly the text on the page could be changed in future drafts.
But they knew: Edited away or not, the text, once created, would exist in its imperfection, and that fear ate away at them. No longer were they dealing with the utter impermanence of pixels on a screen: Now they were dealing with a gleaming sheet of white paper waiting to be embossed with their wisdom, and once written, once embossed, it would always exist as such.
Five times while thinking about this, Ravyn had set their fingers upon the keyboard, and five times, having massaged the key caps impotently, they’d pulled their hands back again.
And still the paper gleamed in its textual virginity.
Ravyn sighed, then pressed the detent release lever, rolling the paper off of the platen. They put it back on the pile of paper next to their typewriter.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.