Dirk van Weelden

It is not often a writer receives appreciation from his neighbours just for doing his work.

Ofcourse, people make a remark about an article they saw in the paper or about a radio item in which the writer talked about his new book. On a rare occasion (depending in which part of town the writer lives) a nearby living reader tells the writer she has enjoyed a recently published book. Cheerful moments, that give the stroll to the nearby grocery a holiday flavor.

But that is not what I’m getting at here. I’m talking about the actual labour, the sitting behind a desk, leafing through notebooks, writing the essays, stories or chapters of a novel. And today two neighbours told me how much they appreciated not my published work, but my actual writing activity.

Yesterday I was outside in the yard, in the shade of a chestnut tree. Around me towered the backsides of the apartment buildings, windows and kitchen doors open. Cutlery hitting plates, whining children, mothers sitting on the balconies, giggling on the phone with a mug of coffee in their hands. Summer temperatures, a light breeze.

A fantastic setting to work in. On the table were some books, notebooks, a Macbook, a cup of coffee, a pitcher of water and a glass. And a greyish green steel travel typewriter made in 1959, a Groma Kolibri. Sometimes I would look up something on the web (nice and wireless), send or receive an email, but mostly I was typing away at the typewriter. I was enjoying myself.

Today two neighbours told me how much they had enjoyed the sound of that typewriter. ‘You inspire the whole neighbourhood,’ said the woman living two floors up. It was that clacking sound in the background, drifting in through the open windows, the fact you could hear someone industrioulsy trying to put his thoughts on paper.

The writer as an acoustic decorator. I had never looked at myself that way. I’m sure the enthusiasm of my neighbours was enhanced by the fact that typewriters do not remind people anymore of their days at the office or the tedious hours in waiting rooms. Today the sound of a typewriter in the distance makes them smile, the ringing bell delights them, they feel connected to ‘real’ writing. Somewhere close by, a writer is at work.