Over winter break I bought a typewriter.
It was kind of spur of the moment. A subreddit post recommended checking out Goodwill’s online shop to find a cheap one. So I did. The next day I was the proud owner of a typewriter.
When I opened the box, my typewriter smelled moldy, was covered in dust, and the ribbon, which is where the ink comes from, was absolutely useless. My first step was to find the serial code and identify this strange antique in front of me as a 1962 Smith-Corona Sterling. I found the compatible type of ribbons and ordered them off Amazon.
After a few hours of figuring out how to install the ribbon, oiling the keys and reading a ton of subreddit posts, my typewriter worked. The joy I felt seeing the ribbon strike and leave an imprint on the page filled me with excitement.
A few days later, my grandmother gave me my grandfather’s 1969 Olympia SM9, still adorned with the “Proudly Made in West Germany” sticker.
I spent hours, much to the annoyance of my friends around me, typing on my typewriters.
This newfound love wasn’t derived from the aesthetic of a typewriter or the novelty of an antique — it came from connecting with the physical page in front of me.
On a computer, mistakes are easily corrected and spell check doesn’t challenge my spelling skills.
The whole writing process is so streamlined that I write faster than I think, and what I do write only exists on my computer.
