#typewriterinterview

[strawberryremus]

“I created a universe. I didn’t do it all on my own, but I don’t think it would have happened without me.”

It took a fair bit of convincing to get him to agree to meet me that day. Rain fell heavily as my town car entered the driveway; I understood why today might not have been the most ideal for an interview. Shielding my face and my notepad from the downpour, I scuttled up to the doorstep.

The doorbell sounded like wind chimes, and moments after I had rung it, a cheerful blonde woman opened the door.

“Ms. Rowling?” I said, reaching my sodden hand out to shake hers.

“Come in, come in!” Her voice was bright. She ushered me inside; the home smelled faintly of honey, and was beautifully adorned. “Can I get you anything? A towel, perhaps?” she asked. She hurried off into an adjoining room as I stood awkwardly in the foyer.

I was grateful for her allowing me to conduct the interview inside the home. I felt it would be important for the context of my story to understand the environment in which he lived. So far, it seemed pleasant.

Ms. Rowling returned to the room with a small stack of towels. “Sit down, dear. I’ll go fetch him for you,” she said, pointing me towards a lavish sofa.

“Actually,” I said, “I was hoping to see for myself where you kept him. If that would be appropriate, of course.”

She smiled; she didn’t seem fearful or nervous. “Certainly.”

Ms. Rowling and I walked through a wide corridor and into a room with several doors that seemed to lead in different directions. One door was labeled, in sweeping cursive, “Writing Study.” We took the door to the left of it.

I must have made a noise indicating my surprise, because she paused with her hand on the doorknob and turned to me.

“I can’t keep him in there. He makes too much noise and it would be impossible for me to focus,” she said, a hint of sadness on her warm face.

Slowly, she turned the doorknob and revealed a slightly dusty storage room.

“Dear?” she said tentatively, as we poked our heads in. “The woman from the newspaper is here.”

My eyes scanned the room, taking in the disarray of boxes and dinner chairs stacked disheveled on top of one another. Then, sat on a table in a corner by a curtained window, was an old, but undamaged-looking typewriter. A voice that I can only describe as low, gruff, and resembling the clacking of keys erupted from it.

“You horrible, devilish woman!” it yelped. I darted my eyes between the typewriter and Ms. Rowling, who wore a sad smile.

“Would you like to take him into the living room?” she asked me, ignoring the insults he had spouted at her.

“Yes, sure,” I said. I was unsure if I should take him in my hands, somewhat fearful that he would start calling me the devil as well, but she indicated that I should.

I made towards the curtained window and stuck a gentle hand under his base. He was fairly heavy, but luckily did not make a sound at my contact. I took him into my arms like a baby, still feeling rather awkward, and followed Ms. Rowling through the door.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” she said as I sat on the couch, placing the typewriter on the coffee table. Smiling her cheerful smile again, Ms. Rowling left through the corridor.

I cleared my throat nervously. “Er, sir,” I said, staring at the typewriter. There were golden decorations on either end of the carriage, making it look like he had thick, metal eyebrows. I noticed there was nowhere to make eye contact and settled for the space between the G and H keys. “I’m going to be taking notes during our interview.” He made no sound.

I produced my notepad from my back pocket and cleared my throat again.

“So, Mr. Typewriter, sir, would you mind beginning by telling me about the role you’ve played in Ms. Rowling’s writing career?”

The clacking voice came again, quite slowly. “I made her the celebrity she is today. Many years ago, I was young. I was naive.” The carriage moved as he spoke. “She purchased me from a shop in London where I had lived for several years with many others of my kind.” Ding. The carriage shifted back. “We spent our days praying that each ring of that bell on the shop door was the sound of someone coming to purchase us, to put us to use.” I couldn’t help but notice that he spoke quite like a dramatic story would be written.

He went on. “Naturally, when Joanne took me home, I was thrilled. I was so full of life back then. She used to talk to me, tell me how she was planning this grandiose story about a boy called Harry Potter, always scratching notes and drawing up charts and tables by hand.” Ding.

“Finally, one day, she got to work. Oh, the story was wonderful.” The typewriter made a sound that very closely resembled a sigh. “Each chapter about the boy revived me from any death I’d died while waiting to be chosen by an author, for I was an author, too. I fed her ideas, took her out of her writer’s block on bad days. We were the best of friends.”

He fell silent. I flipped through my questions, trying to find one to follow with. Instead, I settled on, “But, what happened?”

“Well, we created that first novel.” Ding. “And it was a masterpiece. I worked tirelessly to produce it for her, never letting my keys stick, never asking for a break when she was on a particularly long inspired whim.” Ding. “And when she went on to publish it, we were overjoyed. It wasn’t long before thousands of people were reading that story Joanne and I had produced.”

“You were happy then,” I prompted lightly.

“Yes, but then she betrayed me, left me to rot on a shelf, all because of one foul thing. It really showed me how little I had ever meant to her.” Ding.

I knew what he was talking about: computers.

The typewriter’s voice rose when he said, “I was the foundation of her career! She would be nothing without me!”

We spoke a while longer, most of the content of the conversation involving the typewriter calling Ms. Rowling rude names, lamenting about technology usurping his relationship with her, and shouting about the glory he should have received for the decade-defining book series. Eventually, I adjourned the meeting and called to fetch Ms. Rowling.

“Would you mind if I included an interview with you in the story? I think it would be interesting for readers to hear your side of things,” I said as she shut the storage room door, closing out the sounds of the typewriter shrieking insults at her.

In our interview, Ms. Rowling expressed that she always had a fondness for her typewriter, but it was true, the first Harry Potter novel was the only book she ever wrote on it.

“It breaks my heart when he says those things. I never wanted to betray him, but it simply became impractical to use him.”

I’ve never written anything on a typewriter, so Ms. Rowling explained to me the difficulty with transporting it and the way that you must retype any additional drafts you wish to make.

“He told me that he used to prompt you with ideas and feels as though you robbed him of credit for the story. What would you say your reasoning was behind choosing not to include a mention of him in the final draft?” Ms. Rowling suddenly looked to be very far away when I asked this question.

She wanted to make it very clear that she had heavily considered the idea in the publishing stages, grappling with herself many times before eventually deciding against it. “The truth, dear, is that, for a very long time, I was the only one he would ever talk to. Back in those days, had you come round here and tried to speak to him, he would have sat and stared back at you like any other inanimate object. I think he may have just been shy around others, but in those days I worried I might be mad. See, I knew he was talking to me, but I also knew that if I shared this with my publishers and editor, they wouldn’t have believed it nor let me put reference to him in the book.”

“Have you ever explained this to him?” I asked. She nodded sadly.

“Surely you can see that he isn’t nearly as quiet anymore. The trouble is, that wasn’t his greatest complaint. He has just been bitter ever since I started writing with a computer, even though he knows the computer doesn’t speak to me, so I couldn’t possibly have the same fondness for it as I do him.”

I understood where he was coming from, though. It is quite difficult to be convinced of something, even if you would like it to be true, if the facts presenting themselves disagree.

I thanked Ms. Rowling or inviting me into her home as I walked out into the showering afternoon. It seemed as though she had accepted success gracefully: her lifestyle was not ostentatious and she seemed like a very kind woman. I supposed that, regardless of how happy one might be with the things they’ve earned in life, there can always be trouble that comes with the choices that lead to prosperity.