The tap, tap, taping, was never ending.
The old typewriter, in need of much repair, he’d found in the attic gave it a new lease on life.
I set him up in the spare room where I could shut the door and deafen the incessant noise.
He was on a mission to write his first novel. He had ideas coming thick and fast, and he had to get them down.
I didn’t get to see him apart from meal times. I missed him, but he didn’t appear to miss me. When he did come out conversation was about how his novel was going.
I did all I could to encourage him, but after a while, the conversation grew tiring. He was full of ideas, the tapping continued for a whole week, and still, there was no manuscript.
The old typewriter kept chugging away, his novel subject to its whims.