“Royal Resurrection”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-17)

My writing career began, in earnest, at the age of ten.

I was able to set up a childhood version of my father’s home office using a trash barrel and a square of scrap plywood. My writing instrument was a blue-and-white, plastic typewriter. It formed text in a blue-green ink that was instantly recognizable in the household. Though intended as a toy, this instrument was fully functional. My habit was set. I continued to write regularly since that moment in time.

Years later, after my television study through Cornell University, a family friend mentioned having a stash of discarded office equipment from that august institution of higher learning. He suggested that I might purchase a real typewriter of my own, rather than borrowing those of my parents. It seemed like a great opportunity to move forward with a career in professional writing. But when I saw his relic, my heart sank.

It was a manual Royal ‘KMM’ office mule, from the 1940’s.

At a price of ten dollars, the machine was a bargain. But my friends laughed loudly at the thought of using such an outdated artifact to author creative prose. In 1981, there was no need to have a museum piece on my desk. Still, the odd clunking of keys and ringing bell after every carriage return endeared me to the device. I wrote several years worth of manuscripts on the Royal, including many of my stories for ‘Biker Lifestyle Magazine’ beginning in 1983.

Bob Bitchin was my editor at the California publication.

I had already been reading his work as a teenager. In rowdy publications like ‘Choppers Magazine.’ So his influence as a mentor and wordsmithing director were strong. I hammered out a vagabond variety of manuscripts on the old typewriter. Because it did not require electricity, I took it everywhere. From my parents’ coffee table to the stoop of a low-buck apartment, to the field of a friend’s homestead farm. I wrote about a ‘biker’ returning from the grave to avenge his own death. About gun battles and whiskey dreams. About fierce, fighting cycle-cats on heels. About political intrigue after a revolution. About old men bargaining away their two-wheeled steeds. About alienation and the search for hope.

The Royal was more than merely a sturdy appliance. It was a mind-portal through which I drew visions from the beyond. Each story brought the satisfaction of having birthed a new tale. But also carried the wonder of seeing what was invisible until I began tapping away at those glass and metal keys. I felt like a medium, peering into a crystal ball and describing the cloudy apparitions that came into view.

Eventually, my first wife suggested a more modern appliance for the home office. She bought an electric typewriter from Fisher’s Big Wheel that had a built-in correction ribbon. A Smith-Corona. It was easier to use and allowed my creative impulses to be transcribed with greater speed. It also could produce a sheet of finished text without cutting embarrassing holes through the paper. But I missed the aura of my veteran beast. The new piece of hardware was sleek and technologically refined. Not clunky or spiced with storage-barn must inherited from years of neglect after being discarded. It was efficient, but lacked character. And I had to plug it in before any signs of life appeared.

My trade-up had been justified. Yet I felt empty.

After decades of prolific writing, I began to once again long for the sturdiness of my old Royal. Instead of being thrown away, it ended up in a Bil-Jac box, stacked with other hidden treasures in our basement. When I decided to put ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond’ into print, the machine was inseparable from my concept of how the book would appear. I used a vintage font to help recreate the spirit of my bygone ink-slinging adventures.

Another tribute came with my design for a personal business card. In hope of selling my books and advancing a consulting business tailored to commercial promotions, the ‘KMM’ seemed like a perfect logo. I placed it above the pertinent contact information. 

With some 35 years of professional writing having passed, the black Royal had become a sort of ‘Holy Grail.’ A talisman of my personal creative journey. Also, a direct connection to those brave word-warriors of the past who had paved the road upon which I was traveling.

It was my point of origin as a professional scribe. And indeed, the place where I still felt most at home.

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