Thursday, May 13, 2010

Typewriter

My handwriting is beyond illegible; it’s repulsive. Even I don’t like looking at it, and sometimes I can’t even read what I wrote. I gave up writing in cursive a long time ago because chicken scratching is a language only a few can read. So when I write, I print my letters. This works pretty well provided there is a straightedge handy.

My ugly penmanship has been an ever-present obstacle for me. In high school I took a full year of typing to communicate better with the written word. But when computers took over the world I got rid of my electric typewriter.

Lately I have become interested in manual typewriters. I’m talking about the ones that are over 40 years old. Clearly a typewriter, especially a manual one, is slower than a computer and mistakes are not easily corrected.

But manual typewriters also have some advantages: They’re always powered up and ready to go and battery life is never an issue. The printer is always compatible; they don’t crash (unless you throw them out the window). The sound that comes from the metal characters striking the paper, and the little bell reminding me to go to the next line, put me in a literary mood. Plus, I think they look pretty cool.

I now have three manual mid-1960’s typewriters. At my office in town I have a slate-blue and ivory Royal Aristocrat. I bought this from a woman selling her uncle’s typewriter. He had passed away without ever realizing his dream. He had always wanted to write a mystery novel, but he never got around to finishing it. The book is still locked in there somewhere and I intend to use the keys to find it.

In my truck I keep a petite, portable Smith-Corona Corsair. I never use my typewriter when I’m driving. It’s texting the way Mr. Underwood intended: stopped and stationary. The guy I bought it from got it from his parents when he graduated from high school in 1965. He put in it his closet and never used it.

The one I have on my writing desk at home is a beautiful Olympia SM-9 with a script/cursive font. The original receipt, manual and the factory test sheet came with it. On that test sheet Mervin and Rosemary Roberts tried out their new typewriter 45 years ago. Rosemary typed her name and address but it was Mervin’s note to her that told the story. It seems that the typewriter was a gift to Rosemary from Mervin.

“TO MY DEAR WIFE. I hope this meets with your approval. Merve.”

Not exactly a Robert Browning/Elizabeth Barrett-Browning exchange, but I intend to seek Rosemary’s approval as I use Merve’s thoughtful and expensive gift (back then it cost $119 plus tax).

I keep a sheet of paper in them at all times, because I never know when an idea will show up. There’s something enticing about a blank sheet of paper in a typewriter. A typewriter is designed for one thing: to put symbols on a piece of paper. The machine may lay dormant for years, but it is patient. It might need a little oil or a fresh ribbon, and then it’s ready to work, like a draft horse in the barn waiting for spring.

Robert Benchley said, “There two types of people in the world: those who divide people into two types and those that don’t. “ When it comes to written communication, I think there are two types: those who do and those who don’t. I would rather type than put pen to paper.

1 comment:

  1. I only wish my handwriting was as good as yours!

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