A love letter to my typewriter(s)

Three weeks into the last cohort of Write of Passage, nostalgia got the better of me. We were in a timed exercise on a writing app that erased our words if we paused too long—designed to curb overthinking and encourage spontaneity. The faster and more purposefully I typed, the more it felt like I was chasing thoughts, like catching fleeting butterflies. When I did keep pace, a surprising solidity emerged, my touch typing fingers etching thoughts onto the page. And that’s when it hit me—the nostalgic spark.

A few clicks on eBay later, I had bought a used black Sharp typewriter. Just like the one I first learned to touch type on in seventh grade.

It arrived slightly beaten up, its body dented like it had been through something. I imagined its scuffs telling me a story late-night scribbles and cramming into tight attics, surviving spilled coffee and the occasional impatient fist. I plugged it in, listened to its hiss and hum, and tried a few lines. While the keys pushed back with a satisfying heft, memories rushed in.

The first time I saw a professional typewriter I must have been four, trailing like a quick shadow behind my father’s knowing and steady steps. It was a quiet, foggy Sunday in the late 1970s, and he had taken me to the brown wood-paneled offices of his growing German sauna manufacturing business. Dust hung in the fluorescent light, settling on deserted desks, waiting for hands to stir it back into motion. As I wandered past meters of files and half-empty coffee pots, my mind tried, impossibly, to take everything in. I remember the hush—the sound of work paused, playing on replay, waiting to resume.

The typewriters towered large like stoic obelisks, their weighty metallic frames shimmering under the dim light. The keyboards, to me sets of cryptic hieroglyphs, holding some of the secrets of this mysterious business world. I didn’t touch them, not then, and my father didn’t explain anything either; he didn’t need to. Even at that young age, I intuitively understood the importance of this world. What I witnessed was purpose, although I didn’t know this word back then. Not loud or obvious, but still and embedded in the pine perfumed air, heavy with meaning.

Three years later, a typewriter appeared in my bedroom. My father had brought it home from the office just for me, without fanfare. It was white and had the weight of an anchor, pressing into my lap as if demanding respect. It instantly became a most precious possession. I loved the important sound it made and the words and messages I could now create, and the way the keys struck paper with authority. I’d retrieve it from under my closet whenever inspiration struck me, believing that whatever I typed was part of a secret ritual.

In seventh grade, I took typing more seriously, and encouraged by the sleek, modern black typewriter I had received. The class was taught biweekly by my good friend’s father, a man who seemed both intimidating and immensely patient, like a figure carved from granite. He rarely smiled and rarely scolded, watching us stumble through the endless drills:

A-S-D-F. J-K-L;
der die das

I can still see us sitting there, rows of us in stiff silence, fingers poised like obedient soldiers waiting for their orders. The clacking keys fell into uneven rhythms, some of us marching confidently, other stumbling, pausing, heads down and shoulders slumping. I remember the scrapes of chairs breaking through the clacking amid our wrestling with slowness. Occasional heavy sighs escaped. Yet no one stopped. We typed with the dogged determination of builders laying brick by brick, our fingers forging fortresses out of muscle memory. The final speed test was like a war metal to be won.

I’m still not sure happened, but I barely passed it—though has this ever truly mattered? I didn’t see back then how typing taught me something else: it wasn’t just a skill to master. It was an exercise in mental endurance, supported by my own body. Showing up, letter after letter. Typing and writing were skills to be earned. And in earning them, I found a quiet purpose. My rhythm of fingers on keys was more than just a sound but he steady heartbeat of persistence, of turning effort into something solid. A bridge to purpose and a connection to the world beyond me—one I was quietly building on my own.

The actor and author Tom Hanks referred to writing by typing as his ‘heart’s meditation.’ I think what he means is that it’s a practice—not unlike knitting or gardening—that focuses the mind while letting it wander. At first glance, these seem like opposites: focus is sharp and narrow, while wandering suggests looseness, even aimlessness. Yet, sitting at the typewriter, both are partners, with the disciplined focus of typing creating the space for mental freedom. Body and mind work together, bound by the rhythm of one’s fingers on the keyboard’s fixed coordinates. A structure to create within, like a river bank guiding the current and allowing a freer flow of consciousness.

This contact between the keys and my fingertips has been a connection I could somehow always count on. School, university, my first job, a long career, my move across continents—always a part of my journey, of me growing up.

Now, the black typewriter—the same model as the one from my seventh grade typing class—sits nearby on a desk. I bought it because I thought I missed it, but maybe it missed me too, as one of the few who still sees its value. It doesn’t see much use, but its presence is a reminder: of my purpose, where I come from and where I hope to go. Of course, I can’t predict the path, but I know now that it’s not marked by perfection but by the further unlocking of my potential. Key by key and word by word, what I hope to bring to life is this: to write about what’s lurking in the dim but near distance—the thriving edge of my past and future.