I love the way my fingers have to work, forging a letter-by-letter relationship with the page. I love that the keys leave a tangible impression of my words on the paper that I can’t erase completely, even the wrong ones. The record of my thinking is right there in the open, teaching me tolerance for my fumbling, training me not to hide my struggle behind a seamless façade of digital perfection.
You know how annoying it is to have a conversation with a person who jumps in to finish your sentences? I love that my typewriters don’t do that. They don’t make helpful suggestions. They leave me alone to make my mistakes and don’t try to correct my spelling and grammar.
I love that I can’t doomscroll or shop. I love the ritual of typing, inserting the paper into the platen, turning the knob until the paper reemerges, centering the carriage. I love the music they make with their movements: the clacks and dings and ratcheting of the rollers and gears. {read}