As a teenager my writing space was the walk-in cedar closet. Among the boxes and assorted odds and ends, there was my small desk and an old Royal typewriter that my brother had once used. The ribbon could be used to the end, then rewound and used again. It was old and the keys had to be pressed hard to type. Oh, but it made a wonderful sound of clickings and whirs while I created on paper what was imagined in my head.