The typewriter was more than just a machine; it was a sanctuary. In the chaos of my childhood, it was the one constant, the one thing that allowed me to express the turmoil inside. The rhythmic clack of the keys was my only form of self-expression, and it became my lifeline. The act of writing grounded me, gave me purpose, and helped me heal. Writing wasn’t just a pastime—it was my way of survival, my way of making sense of the world. Even now, as technology changes, that sound, that rhythm, is still a part of me.

The day Aunt Sue drove our U-Haul out of South Carolina is one I’ll never forget. As we pulled away from Daddy Number Two’s house, she glanced at me with a sly grin and said, “We gotta get you guys outta here. That man’s got eight wives locked in his basement.”

At the time, I didn’t know whether to laugh or be terrified. I took her words literally, filing them away with all the other odd, fragmented memories of my childhood. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I realized Aunt Sue’s stories were more than just jokes—they were her way of navigating a life full of hardships with humor as her armor.

Aunt Sue, the oldest of three siblings, had been through a lot. Life in the small town wasn’t always kind, and Granddaddy, with his tough love and hard lessons, was a man who could be as mean as a snake. Yet, Aunt Sue always faced life head-on, armed with a quick wit and a story for every occasion.

But even then, even as a little girl, I understood something deeper: we were running. Running toward something better, or at least something different. It wasn’t just a physical escape—it was a symbolic one.

In Amarillo, nothing felt familiar—not the suburban streets, not the orderly rows of houses, and certainly not the buildings stacked atop each other like bales of hay in the city’s heart. I had come from a place where life sprawled outward—fields stretching to the horizon, barefoot days spent chasing fireflies, and people who spoke in the rhythm of cicadas. Here, everything rose up, as if the world were trying to press me into the ground.

I didn’t fit. My clothes, my accent, even my wiry frame marked me as different. I was the redneck farm girl who didn’t understand why sidewalks replaced dirt paths or why the sky seemed smaller here. At night, the shadows cast by streetlights through the canopy bed’s frilly lace convinced me that monsters lay in wait. By day, those same monsters followed me into classrooms where my sharp mind didn’t help me make friends, only made me more of an outsider.

The typewriter became my sanctuary. Its keys were solid and predictable, a grounding rhythm I could control in a world that felt like a storm. When I pressed down, the letters landed on paper in neat, orderly lines, as if it were possible to make sense of things after all.

The clack of the keys became a comforting rhythm, a way to channel the restless energy of my young mind. Soon, the typewriter became my escape—a tool to make sense of the chaos swirling around me.