My 1930s Royal P typewriter is finally back in my possession after a nearly 2 month long stay at the local repairman’s shop. This is my very first typewriter, a glossy black piece of heirloom history I picked up from an elderly seller who had this sitting in her closet, tucked away and forgotten, an antique quietly ignored. It’s now outfitted with all new rubber, a new ink ribbon, and all its bits and bobs are in perfect working order.
And it’s mine. All mine.
“This is a beautiful machine,” the repairman said. “I really enjoyed working on this. Customers bring all kinds of crap in here, and I have to turn people away. Most of those older typewriters are junk. But this one… It doesn’t get much better than this.”
It’s addicting. The feel of the keys. The slowness. The analog clack of the hammer as it drives each letter into the ribbon, pressing ink to the page. The feel is just as electric as a juicy fountain pen, and I am enamored. It forces you to think as you type. On an electric keyboard, I’m 150wpm. But on this… it’s like a sip of tea compared to the frenetic buzz of coffee. Mellow and thoughtful. Elegant.
I couldn’t be happier.