Are typewriters secret time machines? ⌛

A couple of years ago, Dean, my writing partner who lives in Canada, sent me this Royal Companion Typewriter across the Atlantic.

The teddies posing in the picture belong to a photographer friend (who created a book of poetry with me). One time when they visited, I noticed a unique photo opportunity on my writing desk and I think the shot turned out quite well.

According to Dean, and he is quite the fountain of knowledge when it comes to typewriters, this model is from 1975. It was manufactured by Silver Seiko Ltd in Japan. Apparently, both Ray Bradbury and Nick Cave also used Silver Seiko typewriters, and that is some literary company I am very happy to keep.

Though it’s not exactly efficient to type whole novels out on a typewriter because they’d then have to be transcribed into a digitised format after the fact, I do use my typewriter whenever possible. For poems. For letters. For inspirational quotes I want to paste into my journal. For any small snippet of writing. I do this because the sound of the keys clacking transports me back to a time where I created art and poetry without fear: my childhood.

Depending on exactly when you were born, the following information may come as a shock to you. But there was once a time when everyone didn’t carry around a mini computer in their pocket. Hardly anyone even had a computer in their home. As such, a great deal of correspondence happened on typewriters. My mother did a significant amount of secretarial work for my father’s business and intermittently she could be found sitting at the dining room table taking dictation.

I could be found under the dining room table, lying on my tummy, drawing Mickey and Minnie Mouse over and over again and writing inferior rip offs of The Wizard of Oz.

I was doing all this on what was known then as typewriter paper. With no home computers there was also no need for supermarket shelves stocked with reams of white A4 paper. So you can bet that this particular art material was expensive and in short supply to me as a child.

Once I had filled every inch of the paper on both sides I could usually beg another piece. And the whole creative process would start again.

I wish I still had those papers.

I think they would demonstrate to adult me how to create without caring about the outcome. To create from the heart and just see where it takes you.

At forty-three, this is still a skill I am trying to relearn.

What I have instead is a sensory memory that teleports me to the mid-1980s when analogue pursuits reigned supreme. And, the little poetry fragment below which I wrote in an attempt to make sure the power of that tiny sensory experience lasts forever.

As a child I listened
to my mother 
snap, tap, tapping 
at her typewriter. 
The elegant ping
of possibility
heralding
each new line.

Do you have a sensory memory that reminds you of the creativity you harnessed in a different time in your life? If so, I’d love to hear about it in the comment box below.