The keyboard sat quietly waiting for the fingers of its familiar friend. Over the past five years together, they’d sent nearly 1.5 million words from the nebulous universe of a creative soul onto paper.
Sure, some of those words never left the computer files. But many of them had soared into the world of publishing in the form of blog posts or ten separate books. That’s right, the keyboard’s friend was an author.
Lately, she’d been lax about cranking out words. KeyB didn’t mind that much. What difference did it make if she pounded out a thousand words every hour for five hours per day or only 500 words in a single hour? They were friends. KeyB would wait for her every day, hoping they’d share those special times.
KeyB remembered them with fondness. His friend’s fingers skimmed over him with surety as passion pulsed through her. It leaked into him and fired his desire to keep working, keep cranking out more words and keep those stories alive.
He blocked out that brief flirtation his friend had with Dragon Naturally Speaking software. Sure, it gave her hours with three thousand words written, but they were a mess. He was there to help her work through the misspellings and additions of punctuation. KeyB hoped his author friend would never get a medical condition that required a return to those days. They made him feel useless.
Lately, she had been feeling a bit useless, too, but KeyB didn’t understand that. Her words were printed. People read them and some left glowing reviews. Others connected with her via something called social media to thank her for writing the stories. Some people even sent emails. He liked those because they compelled her to joyfully tap him in reply.
Yes, he was an essential part of her journey, but sometimes he wished he could speak independently to her. He’d send her a note. It would go something like this:
Dear Writer Friend:
I love our times together, but you have to stop being so hard on yourself.
You know what I mean. On days when your fingers hesitate over me and can barely tap out a few hundred words, you aren’t a failure. Right now, your creative juices are steeping and refilling something you keep calling a “creative well” in your musing journal and a few blog posts. (What? You think I don’t know what you write as your fingers stroke and caress me?)
I’m here for you. I’ll always listen. Every word you craft with me is special and original. I love them all.
Please don’t quit. I would miss the laughter and tears your stories create with me. The world would be a sadder place.
Your faithful companion,
Mr. Key Board
Of course, KeyB couldn’t work independently of his writer friend. He needed her fingers to do the walking in order for him to do the talking. Didn’t she see how much he needed her? She was necessary, but she’d told her musing journal that she was nonessential and worthless. All because she didn’t have a full-blown novel outline in mind to write.
Why wouldn’t she take a day off? Or a month? Or even a year? He would wait for her. Yes, he’d miss their daily interactions. He loved being creative. He’d been created for that purpose: as a helper to those who used words to communicate.
She’d been created for a purpose, too. Maybe it wasn’t to write a best-selling novel. Maybe it wasn’t to write the fantasy stories she loved to read. Or maybe it was to do both those things. As long as he was around, she could write whatever inspired her. And in turn, she would encourage others.
If only he could make her see that.
He tingled. Her fingers settled onto what her typing teacher called home row. The pads of her index fingers brushed over the nubs marking the letter F and J. Tingling increased as she tapped a few keys.
She came. She was writing. It filled KeyB with joy and certainty.
They were still friends. Things were going to work out for them.