The Lessons I've Learned from Typewriters
“The intellect is a great danger to creativity . . . because you begin to rationalize and make up reasons for things, instead of staying with your own basic truth—who you are, what you are, what you want to be. I’ve had a sign over my typewriter for over 25 years now, which reads ‘Don’t think!’ You must never think at the typewriter—you must feel. Your intellect is always buried in that feeling anyway.”
A Lettera 32
I possess quite a fondness for typewriters. I’m fortunate enough to own several, with my favorite of the bunch being a bright red Olivetti Valentine from 1969. I do my most creative work when I’m sitting before its glossy black keys and rectangular figure. But don’t just take my word for it—the above quote belongs to Ray Bradbury, author of Fahrenheit 451. He wrote the book’s first draft in the basement of Powell Library on a typewriter he rented from UCLA. According to Bradbury, he paid ten cents for every half hour, costing him a total of $9.80. Cormac McCarthy, another prolific writer most famous for writing Blood Meridian, used a Lettera 32 to write all of his books from the mid-1960s up until 2009, when he sold that machine… and replaced it with an identical one.
Clearly, McCarthy and Bradbury found something in typewriters that clicked with them, but how does that translate to our present technological reality? We can’t ask them, as both of those men have passed away. It seems like most typewriter advocates are limited to the mid to late 20th century. Heck, the Bradbury quote was from an interview conducted in 1974! As such, I can’t blame you if you think typewriters are relics of the past. While they were mainstays of almost every workplace since their widespread adoption in the 1880s, the rise of personal computers that began around a century later replaced them in nearly every applicable context. With laptops and the like growing ever more advanced, it becomes easier and easier to see why that replacement occurred. As far as I can tell, there are three main reasons that typewriters struggle to remain relevant in the 21st century:
They’re noisy.
It’s basically impossible to fix your mistakes.
They can’t connect to the internet whatsoever.
Yes, that’s all undeniably true. However, I’m here to make the case that each of these conditions can actually work to your advantage and make you a better writer, starting with…
1. They’re noisy.
Noisiness is relative. Rock concerts are noisy, but you wouldn’t complain about a performance by your favorite band. The Grinch couldn’t stand the “noise” that came from the Whos down in Whoville—the tall and the small—until it was recontextualized by his discovery of the true meaning of Christmas.
My Olivetti Valentine
Here’s a question for you: when you hear the gentle clicking of a keyboard, do you assume the typer is writing? You certainly could, but that same clicking might be the sound of them playing a video game or filing their taxes. Here’s another one: when you hear the soothing scuffle of a pencil on paper, is it possible that the person responsible is writing? Yes, but they’re just as likely to be doodling or filling out a crossword puzzle. Now, when you hear all of the awesomely aggressive noises that a typewriter makes, from the smack of the typebars to the ding of the bell, you can be certain, without alternative, that the person responsible is writing.
It’s that level of specificity that I, as a writer, find to be helpful when it comes to staying on task. Using a typewriter and getting that unique auditory feedback serves as a constant reminder of what I’m doing and why. I find it easier to write while using my Valentine because writing is its sole purpose—the one thing it was immaculately designed to do. It’s not like my computer, where I can effortlessly switch to performing a myriad of other tasks while producing the same sounds. When it’s just me and my typewriter, all I can do is write, and that notion is reinforced by the sound it makes letter by letter, word by word.
2. It’s nearly impossible to fix your mistakes.
Look, I can’t sit here and pretend like the typewriter’s lack of editing power was ever intentional. To use modern lingo, it was most assuredly a bug as opposed to a feature, one that was fixed by computers. However, I’d argue there’s hidden value in the finality of the typewriting experience. You see, Google Docs and Microsoft Word make spotting and fixing typos easy and immediate, thanks in no small part to the little red line that appears beneath them. But riddle me this: when you pause to fix a typo, are you still writing? No, you’re editing! Yes, the ability to hop back and forth between writing and editing is convenient, but it tempts you out of that “Don’t think” state of emotional truth and into the intellectual state that, according to Bradbury, is so damaging to the first draft.
Additionally, the auto-editing computer feeds a happy little human condition called the negativity bias. This cognitive software skews our perception so that we amplify negativity over positivity, even when they exist in equal measure. If you write an absolutely stupendous sentence but notice that you used the wrong form of “there”, you’re more likely to feel inadequate for your mistake than commend yourself for the success. All writers know what it’s like to battle self-doubt, and the red lines are not on your team. Luckily, there exists a certain writing instrument that allows you to forgo all of that…
My Olivetti Valentine treats everything I type with equality, letting typos exist as freely on the page as anything else. It doesn’t tempt me into editor mode. It keeps my focus on the next word since it’s impossible to change anything about the previous one. It renders editing—and thinking about editing—things of the future, making it easier to feel, stay with my basic truth, and write what I’m meant to write, per Bradbury. As Anne Lamott once wrote, “writ[ing] a really shitty first draft” is the first step toward great writing. The typewriter was built to do this. I mean, think about it: it’s called a typewriter, not a type-editor!
(Hold for uproarious laughter)
With that, we move on to my final point…
3. They can’t connect to the internet whatsoever.
While it may seem as though anything written on a typewriter is doomed to a life on individual sheets of paper, there are two ways in which we can mitigate this. First, there are a multitude of phone apps that convert pictures of paper documents into digital, editable ones. From there, you can fix any mistakes with ease. This method is fast and convenient, but it robs you of a unique opportunity, an opportunity offered by… method two!
This one is even more straightforward; all you have to do is create a blank document on your computer and manually copy your typewritten text word by word. Ernest Hemingway—another famous typewriter lover—is believed to have said that “the only kind of writing is rewriting.” If this is indeed true, then this method just might be a literal embodiment of that idea. I love this task because it forces you to read your work extremely closely. You know how reading your work out loud can help you find mistakes or hitches in the flow? Well, this is that idea, but supercharged! By taking things slow, you’re giving yourself a chance to evaluate every sentence as you type. If something looks or sounds wrong, you’ll catch it for sure. By the time you’re done, you’ve got a second draft.
All that being said, typewriters aren’t necessarily available for curbside pickup at your local office supply store. As much as I love these wonderful machines, they’re often expensive and difficult to maintain. Luckily, you don’t need a typewriter to put their lessons into practice. Here’s how you can work with what you’ve got:
Overtype is a website that “faithfully re-creates the manual typewriter experience.” This includes a functional inability to copy and paste whatever you write, so I hope you like method two! I’d also recommend closing every other app on your computer to reduce notifications and distractions.
Speaking of your computer, you can actually disable those dreaded red lines and all of their kin in Word and Google Docs. In Word, click “File” and then “Options” to bring up a menu that allows you to change “Proofing” settings. If you’re using Google Docs, hit “Tools,” hover over “Spelling and grammar,” and uncheck both “Show spelling suggestions” and “Show grammar suggestions.” After that, go back to the main “Tools” menu, click “Preferences,” and turn off… pretty much everything. Voila! Red lines no more.
Finally, you can simulate much of the typewriting experience by using a pen and paper. Be sure not to use a pencil or one of those newfangled erasable pens, as doing so permits you to fix mistakes. Additionally, there’s nothing simpler than a notebook, which beats out typewriters and computers alike in terms of portability.
In a very objective-driven world, it can be difficult to remember that it's just as much about the journey as it is the destination, if not more so. To me, being a writer is more than the things that I've written, but the fact that I enjoyed writing them. Anyone can write, but not everyone can find it fun. As such, our work improves when we feel more positive about doing it, and out of all the lessons I’ve learned from typewriters, this is the most important one.
Originally from Portland, Maine, Audrey Orenstein presently resides in Burlington, pursuing a major in Creative Writing at Champlain College.