The Typewriter
I’ve done it. I took the leap: I bought a typewriter.
It’s a Smith-Corona Model 5 “Sterling” that dates from some time in the 1950s. It may not be the most attractive-looking of machines—it reminds me of a military tank (has to be something about the colors)—but it happens to be as tough and sturdy as a tank, too. It functions well, and that is what matters most to me.
Not that I had many options. You can’t exactly pick and choose when you’re limiting yourself to purchasing something in person so you can test it out. Plus, they’re old, so that means scrounging in vintage shops, which only come with hit-or-miss surprise-style inventory. It’s a hunt. When you find something acceptable, you pounce. At least I live near a town that’s bursting with antique stores, but that doesn’t mean these stores are bursting with typewriters. Most of them have zilch in that department.
I started mildly toying with the idea of getting a typewriter about a year ago when I watched the documentary California Typewriter and read the book Typewriter Revolution by Richard Polt. The concept intrigued me, but a manual typewriter seemed impractical for a person such as myself who struggles with repetitive strain injuries. Several friends warned me that I would hurt myself. Yes, manual typewriters require much more force than we are accustomed to using with our wimpy computer keyboards. I think that’s part of the thrill, though.
(What looks weird at first glace—no number one key! Why have that when the lower-case “L” can get the job done?)
It remained just a fun notion until I stumbled upon one for sale the other day. I didn’t buy it. When I woke up the next morning, however, I decided I wanted it. Badly. The frustration: that store was closed that day. In fact, it was closed until Thursday, and here I was on a Monday morning, itching for a typewriter. So I started searching other shops to see if I could find anything better. I found a Royal that needed ribbon and only typed as far as the middle of a line. I found two black Underwoods that looked well-worn and not too promising in the function department. I also found a bison head, Steiffs galore, broken fountain pens (and some good-condition extremely pricey ones), crusty ink bottles, lighthouse figurines, and an alligator purse: no more typewriters. So I ended up going for the Smith-Corona that instigated my adventure in the first place.
I’m glad I snatched it.
While I have no intention of composing anything lengthy on it, it’s still fun to play with it and pound a random sentence here and there throughout the day. It seems an ideal tool for venting frustrations—you have to type like you mean it and really smack hard. I get better results when I hammer at it with just my index fingers. This tank runs on aggression, not speed.
(In case you cannot read what I have typed:
“Typing with a typewriter feels like pounding out a declaration of war. This machine was not engineered to deliver half-hearted thoughts, only to hammer away convictions. The typewriter is a word-weapon!”)
It’s a weapon, whereas the fountain pen is a gentle tool that demands a light touch. The fountain pen induces a sense of calm. The typewriter is an emotional release that helps tame the inner beast. I like them both for different reasons, but the fountain pen is still my preference and the safer option for most of my writing.
The typewriter feels more like an act of rebellion against the digital age than the pen, however, and I think that’s what I like best about it. Because pens and notebooks are small, they’re convenient. One can sit down in a public place with a notebook and pen and go pretty much unnoticed. One cannot be inconspicuous with a typewriter. It is large, unwieldy, LOUD. There is nothing convenient about it. But perhaps because the delivery feels like a battle, the finished product is more satisfying than any document printed from a computer. It takes effort—in the end it gives the sense of being more of an accomplishment. Fountain pens have very practical aspects, primarily ergonomically speaking, but not so much with a typewriter. But it’s time away from a screen and it’s 100% private, human-powered, and impossible to hack—and that makes it a thing of beauty and comfort.
…Except for my cat. He’s terrified of the THWACK THWACK THWACK ZZZZZZZIP and the thrashing typebars that resemble spiders’ legs. He doesn’t trust it at all and approaches it with extreme caution.
