A couple of nights ago, my roommate Rick and I were drinking beer when we decided to whip out my typewriter, a 1964 Smith Corona Classic 12. Light Blue. Full manual. Rick and I are both writers – him the creative nonfiction type and me the reporter – so we decided to collaborate on an impromptu piece of creative journalism.
I started typing to show him how to use the metal brute. After a couple of quick lines, I plopped the typewriter in his lap.
it;s so he avy this typewriter doyou want to put it on the floor. nnah. it feels good.
Clacking keys on a manual typewriter is unlike any other form of writing. You realize the struggles that plagued writers of the past. Typing isn’t smooth and fluid like on a keyboard, it’s a pecking frenzy that leaves your hands twisted as they try and keep up with your mind.
Occasionally you’ll miss a space or hit half a letter in the quest to complete a sentence. But let the fingers warm up and watch the words pop as steel slaps ink on a page.
There is no delete key, only a backspace which can be used to turn r’s to n’s and p’s to g’s. When you screw up bad enough, you have to rip out the page and start anew. No wonder writers of the past were so damn good. One draft is never enough. The rewriting process is decided by the nature of the machine.
But the underlying beauty of all this is the written word. Â Manuscripts of jibberish typed on a half-shredded sheets of paper jammed crudely into the roller. Others are clean pages, their margins aligned with surgical precision. Should electricity or technology ever fail the masses, the majority of my words would be lost, much to the joy of my editors.
this is fun it;s like a new toy, and you can bang on it too.
I sketched in a hand-sized drawing book as Rick explored the machine.
“Where’s the return key?”
“There isn’t one. You have to hit this bar to advance the page and align it left.”
When Rick hesitated between sentences, I flipped a switch, changing the ribbon from black to red.
hi red,how ya doin?
We agreed that the red should be used in moderation and only to highlight an important point. He flipped the switch back to black.
Later we took a late-night walk to campus to observe the multiple characters that inhabit the Upper West Side. The business-type in a suit, trying to text and keep his balance as he stumbles down Broadway. He is no doubt organizing a late-night rendezvou. Under the glow of a streetlight, two lovers embrace. They pull their lips away softly as they hold hands and turn the corner.
Upon our return I sit down once more to slap out one final verse.
Slowly the salt seeps into the seams of my jeans.
With that, I gently roll the page out, give it a quick read and slide between the sheets of my bed.