Just My Type

I just had the good fortune of being given an old IBM typewriter.

It weighs eight million pounds, takes up most of my desk, and makes noises akin to a jet engine warming up. But there's just something magical about typing this way: the emphatic clunk of every key, the care with which every word needs to be punched. It wasn't long ago that we were all using these, but there's something inescapably "antique" about the way those letters look pressed into the paper.

This giant dinosaur reminds me of my Grandma's old typewriter. She used to sit me down in front of it when I came over for the weekend, knowing it would keep me quietly entertained for long stretches. I wrote my first (and only) scary story on it. I loved how important every page felt as I rolled it out into my hands. Like it was something special simply because it was typed.

I will be writing all important correspondence (and ransom notes) on it from now on.