10/16/10

For the Love of a Woman
By Wayne Scheer


Adam Lasgow had been writing poems with pencil and paper for nearly forty years. He loved the scratching sound, the smell of graphite, the smudge of the erasure as he shaped his thoughts. He used the pencil to accent certain syllables by pressing down harder, giving him a visual image of the sounds in his head. To others, his drafts looked like a schoolboy's smeary mess; to him it represented the beauty of the creative process.

He'd write and rewrite a single poem, often filling an entire oversized legal pad. He had tried writing on standard-sized paper, but he didn't feel comfortable. Something about the feel of the oversized pad on his lap as he leaned back from his desk stimulated his muse.

His wife claimed there was something sexual about the way he composed with the pad on his lap, rocking gently at first and more actively as he entered the rhythm of the poem. He smiled at his wife's observation, readily admitting the connection between sexual and creative energy.

He trusted her to type his poems once he completed them, since even the editor of three of his books, a close friend, refused to accept his handcrafted scribbles and scratches. For nearly four decades, Evelyn did so happily, honored to be part of her husband's work.

However, arthritis made it difficult for her to continue typing for him, especially since he preferred she use an ancient Smith-Corona. She wanted to switch to a computer but he refused, although he admitted that his own arthritis was making writing by hand painful.

Adam feared technology, worrying he couldn't experience the joy of the creative process in a mechanized world. But it pained him to grasp a pencil and it hurt more to watch his wife grimace as she pushed down on the typewriter keys.

Despite his fear, Evelyn and his editor friend, Lucus Malroy, decided to present Adam with a present of a computer. While he was out, they pushed aside a stack of yellow legal pads, and set it up on his desk.

When Adam saw what they had done, his heart pounded with fear. The sight of the impersonal screen, speakers and printer on his desk turned his stomach. But Evelyn urged him to try.

Feeling like the original Adam, he took the first byte.

He never wrote another poem again. Instead, he twittered away his time in an online writing group.


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Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.co