Blind hope

Casting it out, reeling it in, living on blind hope again.
-Son Volt, “Blind Hope”

That’s what we writers live on. Blind hope. And so I rise each morning, sometimes with a throbbing head, the coffee already brewed and waiting, made the night before, the programmed coffeemaker set for six-something. The desk was made by myself and my uncle, Buddy. On top of it, I sit my laptop, and I begin to crank it out or edit what I’ve written. When the words won’t come, I slide my chair over to the card table I got at Goodwill and begin anew on my electric typewriter. Sometimes just the sound of that thing – slinging letters up on a crisp white sheet – can push a man to think he’s destined for something more than what he has, like others who struggled and endured before him. After the typewriter’s turned off, it leaves a scent of oil mixed with the gears of a moving machine. It hangs in the little cabin. It smells like work.