Communicating with a manual typewriter

I was drawn in by the documentary “California Typewriter,” a portrait of artists, writers, and collectors who remain loyal to the typewriter as a tool and muse. I experiment writing different genres of prose, so I acquired a 1939 Smith-Corona Sterling with the notion that it could be helpful to me when developing characters and dialog with a writing instrument of old. The Sterling has “Made in The U.S.A.” stamped on it, its style is minimalistic, is of a black matte finish, and the row of keys are elevated like steps in a bleacher. It does one thing: It types characters on paper.

My first works, reports of incidents and yarns of fiction were made on a manual typewriter. It had been a long time since I had banged on one, and my Sterling reminded me you need to push the keys with deliberation; when you swipe the return, do it with some force or the bell won’t chime.

It’s a feeling of accomplishment when you get the rhythm back and you listen to the tack-tack-ta-tack as you’re getting the thought down. Like learning to work the speed bag. For what it’s worth, I’m slower with a manual, but more accurate. Slower because when I make a typo, its easier to X over it and move on rather than try to correct it with white out. More accurate because I then must be very careful typing the smooth copy for submission. The worth of it, I guess is discipline, like knowing when to pause and think of consequences before you speak.

My typewriter predates World War II and I sometimes wonder what messages it might have composed, when telephones were a luxury, and letters were written with much thought beforehand. Handwritten letters are more personal, but a signature at the end of a typed letter is a close second: “I got your letter from Iwo Jima, Dearest, and The Stars and Stripes newspaper says you Marines are moving out to hit Okinawa next. Be careful, ya big lug. Love, Daisy.”

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