To the Woman with the Typewriter in Central Park
Letter to a Stranger: Essays to the Ones Who Haunt Us is an anthology edited by essayist Colleen Kinder. It is an off-shoot of a column called "Letters to a Stranger" from her online magazine, Off Assignment. If you've read my first blog post, you know that I took a class in college that was "Writing for Digital Platforms"—a class for which the end-result was our own website featuring different writing projects we completed over the semester. The first of these writing assignments was called "Letter to a Stranger," inspired by the column from Off Assignment. When I took the course, this concept had not yet become an anthology, so it was exciting for me to learn recently that Kinder had developed the project into a print publication.
I love the concept of this composition: the idea that you can think of any stranger you've ever crossed paths with in your lifetime and tell a story about your interaction with them (or lack thereof), how they impacted you, and/or what you wish you could have said to them. These are stories we all have but don't often take the time or, maybe even, know how to articulate why such a small piece of our lives sticks with us. So here's another one of mine.
To the woman with the typewriter in Central Park,
I've lived in Connecticut my whole life, but the day I saw you was my first time ever truly visiting the City. We had yet to leave Central Park and I was already starry-eyed looking at various pieces of it that I'd only seen in movies and T.V.—the steps where Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass got married on Gossip Girl, the fountain that held the (baby) Weeping Angels who sent Rory Williams back in time on Doctor Who, the place where Kevin McAllister made friends with the pigeon lady in Home Alone 2. I was trying to preserve my phone battery, but continued to call up the camera every 30 seconds to snap something else I was excited to see. The canopies of bare branches removed some of the park's luster, but none of its character.
I walked arm in arm with my husband, Sam, as we lagged at the back of our group. I fixed my attention on the never-ending, aged wooden bench that seemed to walk along with us down the path of hexagon pavers. What I assumed were simple circles engraved on the seat back were actually flowers, whose petals disappeared from far away. I'm glad the sunlight that warmed my face and made me squint revealed their existence.
Oh no, I thought. My face, in direct sun. Am I gonna go home with a sunburn? In February? It would be just like me. Wait—I'm wearing makeup today! It has SPF! Phew.
I just finished telling Sam about my thought trail when I heard the ding of your typewriter. Immediately, I examined my surroundings for the source of that familiar sound and found what I thought it to be. There you were in the distance, sitting at a T.V. tray on the left side of the path, rhythmically typing away like you barely had to think about what you were punching in. My heart leapt. I couldn't hold back from turning to him again and whispering as if I'd seen a celebrity.
"She has a typewriter! I have one of those!"
What a dreamy thing to do with your day.
As we moved closer, my gaze was stuck on you. Your glasses sat softly on your moderately-creased countenance and two of the longest salt-and-pepper-colored braids I'd ever seen sat underneath your patchwork-looking hat and draped down your petite frame in a magenta jacket. I was wearing braids that day, too. You looked up at me, caught my eyes and smiled, quickly returning your glance back to your keys so as not to mistype and need Wite-Out. My eyes toddled down to the piece of paper fastened to your makeshift desk.
"Custom poems on demand," it read, in swirly letters, looking just as romantic as it felt to discover what you were doing.
In the little bit I'd seen of New York so far, vendors were planted everywhere, many selling art—photography prints, frames, souvenir novelties, and of course, live music.
But yours was a different kind: words—custom and on-demand, no less. I quickly fell in awe of your ability and willingness to meet the challenge of a composition for a stranger who may throw any kind of prompt at you. It's a genius writing exercise, though intimidating; you're at the mercy of a stranger's time and their taste.
"She's writing poems on demand!" I said to Sam as we passed you.
"Did you want one?" he asked. I slowed my steps.
What a literally one-of-a-kind piece of this trip to bring home. It seemed to embody every facet of literary art I learned to value in the last few years: the artistry, the craft, the innovation. Sometimes I feel like the world of literary arts comes with this persona of being pensive, divergent, and/or academically pretentious. I become stranded between a desire to be fully entrenched in what I admire about it and feeling like I'm not deep enough, different enough, or exceptionally well-versed in all of the great literary art that's out there. But I saw you and saw the literary art that I love: the kind that's refining, welcoming, and humbly unique.
"Did you see what it said she would charge?" I hadn't seen a piece of writing posted on your tray that indicated a price.
"Hmm, no I didn't," he replied.
I paused my feet and turned around for a second. Do I want to pay for it, or save my money for the rest of the day? That seems like it could be pretty expensive...or maybe not? But we are running a little behind schedule already...
I turned back away from you, and linked arms with Sam again.
"I'll just write about it," I said with a smile.
So I didn't let myself take home any of your words. I hate to think of being just another figure to pass you by and not expressly show an interest in your passion, especially one that I share. Do I regret it? A little. But you inspired some words of my own, so from one writer to another, thank you for the "spark." Maybe someday soon, I'll visit again and return the favor.
And thank you for your example of courage. Offering up your creations for others to judge at will is a brave skill practice. You've tossed overthinking and fear of failure away like crumbs to a flock of pigeons—something I'm learning to do.
💗
Nice work If you can get it. Reminds me of an SNL skit called Deep Thoughts. Of course it was ridiculous but writing is all about that; deep thoughts, ridiculous or not. Whatever you write be fearless. You don’t have to be ridiculously deep.