As the Author sat at the kitchen table and typed on her grandmother's typewriter, she felt inspired. The plate and mug from her breakfast was still on the table, but the smell of the omelette had long left the air.
The Author had never written on a typewriter before, the motion of pressing the small buttons was new to her fingers. Her writing was covered in typos and letters written on top of other letters to correct the mistakes.
The day before the Author had looked through the attic to find the typewriter. She found it behind some boxes full of old books and long-forgotten holiday decorations. Writing on the typewriter has the Author dreaming of older and newer times. In a perfect situation, she'd be sitting in a cafe somewhere in town to write, but the machine is so loud that it would bother everyone around her.
For the past few weeks, words have flown around in her brain without forming sentences. Nothing has been coherent enough to put on a page. But now, sitting at her grandmother's typewriter, her writer's block fades away. Word after word appearing on the page and the Author can't help but want to continue writing on this typewriter night and day. She's taking more care now, pressing the buttons slower not to make so many mistakes.
As the Author writes on this old typewriter, her mind wanders. It travels to the world she's writing. And as through magic, snow starts falling outside the window. The large feathery snowflakes, together with the candles on the table, create an atmosphere that the Author cannot seem to describe. It just feels like a dream. And the Author sure likes dreaming.
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