Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge fan of computer technology. I love being able to sit with my lap top, appropriately on my lap. I can’t imagine the act of writing in any other era where re-writes are so convenient to accomplish.
And yet, oh do I love the typewriter. It’s a beautiful machine. It says “writer” to me. If I had a large house, and a lot of empty shelves, and a disposable income, I would collect typewriters. A whole room full. The old ones, the ones you really had to bang away at. Forget electric! I love the look of them, the steam-punkness. The sound of them – the freight train clickety clack. The imprint on the page. The weight of the keys. It takes physical effort to get the work done; I imagine it was equal parts frustration and satisfaction to wrestle the typewriter.
I have a ring (since broke, sob) made up of a single typewriter key. Shift Lock. It to me is the embodiment of my room full of typewriters. The embodiment of what it means to be a writer. My symbol.