The Writer's Code

I'm riding the old Motobecane up a hill in the Columbia Gorge when I come to one of the smaller waterfalls and stop to rest. A trail leads from the road, up into the hills, and from the beginning of the trail I can look up and see a glow somewhere near the top of the trail. Something is on fire. I lock the bike and lumber up the trail to see what it is.

The trail is short. At the end is a little clearing and in that little clearing sits a small black object. It is a typewriter, one that looks much like my old Underwood, and it is the typewriter that is on fire. The keys do not melt, the platen does not deform, and the paint on the metal does not blister. I take off my shoes. Clearly, this is hallowed ground.

A voice from the typewriter fills the clearing. It acknowledges the time I have spent both writing and studying the craft of writing. It calls me a lowly novice. Speaking with a slow baritone, the voice gives me rules to write by.

Thy characters, be they heroic or of any other kind, shall not possess a broad face, nor shall they have broad shoulders. Thine hero shall not possess blue eyes; be satisfied with some other color. Thy character shall not call others "Dear Child" or "My child". Neither their chest nor their breast shall heave great sobs. Do not let thyne character's eyes well up with tears. Thyne character's tears shant be hot tears. They shall not stop the words of anyone with their mouth. Do not let their words trail off into silence.

The typewriter said nothing more and I backed away and put on my shoes.

It was a funny thing for a burning typewriter to say. I'm used to being caught making grammatical errors, being snared by the improper use of prepositional phrases and personal pronouns, and I don't feel ready to consider the details and pitfalls of character description. I suppose the words it spoke will come in handy some day.