I’ve always been drawn to typewriters. With typewriters,
words hit the page with a noticeable “thunk.” Words cannot easily disappear the
way they can with word processors. Typists have to backspace and type X’s or
use corrective tape which gives writers pause and time to revise. Typed words
have a permanence that cannot be found in today’s word processors, tablets, and
phones.
My mother had a Remington Standard typewriter from the 1960s
that she treasured. Even then in the 1970s and early 1980s it was a relic. The
typewriter weighed a ton so moving it from the desk to the table required
considerable effort.
The Remington had green, gray keys. The rubber carriage
moved along with the words. When it was fully extended, writers heard a small
ding telling them it was time to reposition that carriage. In a way, that
simple act was electrifying for me as a kid. Pushing that slight metal bar and
repositioning the carriage was like reloading a gun. Not that I had guns or
knew anything about them.
The physical motion of moving the carriage was empowering
because it meant I had accomplished something. I had expressed something
exciting and tangible on paper.
I must confess I had an unrealistic view of writing and was
often disappointed with my creative output. When I started a new story, I felt
like the writer in the Carol Burnett and Harvey Korman skit who could create
worlds as he clacked away. But just like the writer in that skit, I was rarely
happy with the results.
I didn’t become the writer that I dreamed of becoming, yet I’m still drawn to typewriters. Many fantastic works of fiction depict typewriters prominently.
One of these works is Suzanne Rindell’s The Other Typist. This novel features Rose who becomes obsessed with fellow typist, Odalie's world. Both are typists for the New York City Police department who type the criminals’ confessions in the 1920s. Told from Rose's unreliable perspective, this work is a fascinating psychological novel.