Tales of the Author: The origins of Tip-tap

The Author sat in her usual spot at her favourite café, writing on just about anything. Her coffee cup was long empty, and she'd stuck sticky notes to just about any clear surface. The Author was working on a story for a youth 14-18 writing class she was part of, a fantasy. The words covering her table had the job of being her inspiration, but most of them acted as distractions.

The Author sighed and rolled her shoulders. She was coming onto the second hour at her table.

"Your keyboard is very silent despite your quick tapping."

The Author looked up at the figure standing by her table. She recognised him as a boy from one of her classes that sits a few steps behind her. The boy held out a mug with steaming contents toward her.

"Oh, hi... I've never thought about that. What's in that mug?"

"It's hot cocoa, with rainbow marshmallow. I hope you don't mind, and the barista said it's what you usually get. Can I sit?"

The Author stared over at Ella. Ella is the daughter of the woman who owns this cafe. She usually works as a barista in the cafe. Ella laughed and sent the Author a wink. The boy had a goofy smile on his face, like many other boys his age do.

"Sure... But why did you ask Ella what my favourite drink is?"
The Author waited for a response as the boy took his time sitting down, hanging his coat on the chair.

"Because I wanted an excuse to come sit next to you. I see you scribbling in class all the time. I guess I wanted to come to ask you what you're writing?" He ended his statement like a question. The Author smiled at him.

"But we've only just started talking, how do I know I can trust you with all of my writing and amateur author secrets?" The Author giggled.

"Well, Tip-tap, I'm trustworthy. You're just going to have to take my word for it." The boy seemed to have filled himself with confidence.

"Tip-tap?"

"Yeah. Tip-tap. That's your name now. It's what I'm gonna call you. Problems with it, Tip-tap?" The boy winked at her.

"I mean, no. But what am I going to call you? We can't have a non-mutual nickname situation." The boy laughed.

"We are going to be great friends, Tip-tap. You'll figure out a good name for me eventually. Until then, you could just call me, oh I don't know, my name?"

The Author laughed. She pulled out her most dramatic tone before she replied.

"Your name?! Isn't that illegal? How in the world could I call you your name  without both of us getting imprisoned for high treason?"

Both of them laughed. The Author turned her laptop slightly to the side, letting the Friend look at what she's been writing.

What he said was true. They were very much going to become great friends.

Tales of The Author: Hector

The Author stood restlessly at the bus stop, her fingers half-frozen in the evening air. She knew her gloves were in the front pocket of her backpack, but their stiff fabric would stop her from writing. Snowflakes slowly floated to the ground as her pen caused sparks to fly from her notebook.

The Author was on her way home from the Wednesday writing café, and the bus was late. During today's writing café, the Author had spent more time than usual chatting with the other participants. They were all working on different things, but when the snow started to fall outside the windows, they felt inspired to write something together.

The result was a chaotically unorganised short story. It focused around poisonous snowflakes in an alternative universe where snow is the primary source of human nutrition.

Though the story had put her slightly behind her writing schedule, it was a well-welcomed break in her day.

The Author has been trying harder than usual to write. She wants to finish a story she's been working on for a while. The story is a birthday present for the Friend, but the words don't seem right.

The Author fumbles with the pen in her cold hands, but fails and drops it together with her notebook. With her frozen hands, she only manages to fling them further away from her toward a puddle of mud and slush when hands appear out of nowhere, rescuing her work from the gruelling fate of muddy water.

"You alright there, miss?"

The man looking at her had kind eyes; he held her notebook and pen out toward her with a look of interest.

"Yes, thank you. I don't know what I would do if this notebook were ruined." She took the notebook from his hands, her cold fingers slightly struggling to get a hold of it.

"What bus are you taking? In case you need further notebook saving assistance, I mean." The man chuckled, his laugh seemed nervous. The Author studied him for a second.

"Oh I'm getting the 24, It's alright though I'll just put it in my bag." The Author opened her bag quite clumsily but managed to put her notebook and pen in the front pocket. She grabbed her gloves and was about to put them on when she decided not to.

"Well then, I guess you're alright." He sent the Author a smile.

"Yes, thank you though...?" She ended her sentence with a question.

"Hector."

"Yes, thank you, Hector." With those words, the 24 southbound stopped in front of them. The Author started to get on the bus when the man spoke again.

"Will I get to know your name?" He rushed out.

"Maybe next time." The Author giggled slightly, the doors closed as Hector looked at her. He slightly shook his head to himself, laughed and walked away. The Author put her travel card against the reader, and when it had beeped green, she sat down on the mostly empty bus.

She found herself wondering if she'd meet him again, but dismissed the thought. When would that ever happen? The Author sighed, placed her headphones in her ears and leaned her head back. Listening to the music combine the hum of the bus engine — time to go home.

Tales of The Author: The Typewriter

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.