The art of typing

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Oh how I would love an old typewriter. The distinguished clicking of the keys. The unparalleled perfection of the font-- so classic and timeless and spaced ever so perfectly. The smell of fresh ink as it comes in contact with crisp, white paper. The heavy weight of each key being pressed down with precision. The sound of returning the carriage to the right-- a repetitive chance to pause and reflect on your writing.

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I love how a typewriter holds you accountable for your writing. No spell check, no grammar suggestions, no delete button. Each movement of your fingers is calculated, thought-out, precise. No need for background music-- the keys are your melody. A rhythm that keeps your creativity flowing.

And only one precious copy. No backup files, no photocopies, no shared documents. One individual manuscript to be kept as a personal treasure or given to a particular, predetermined recipient.

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I remember when I was a child witnessing my grandpa sit in his office typing letters to faraway friends. Looking down through his glasses, meticulously typing out page after page, holding the paper up to the light to make sure it was just right. As my mom always tells me, he was exceptional at keeping in touch with those from his past-- maintaining a regular correspondence with friends he may not have seen in years and years.

Maybe my grandpa loved his typewriter as much as I love the idea of a typewriter.

More likely, he just loved people.

But there's definitely something captivating about typewriters-- with their round keys, visible mechanisms, musical sounds, and romantic demeanor. I'm simply enamored with them. ♥