When I first got into typewriters, my initial reaction was how could anybody write on such a kooky machine? Though I must admit, my first experience was on a late 1960s Smith-Corona Galaxie 12, a modern yet somewhat under-achieving typewriter. Despite its shortcomings, there was still that special spark in the Galaxie I’m sure we’ve all felt in our own first encounters. It only spurred me to seek something better. Something smoother, more confident, better built and easier to type on. It’s a journey many of us still trod. It took a few errant side quests before discovering my 1947 Smith-Corona Sterling.
It’s not you who find the typewriter, but the typewriter who finds you. You’ll know it. Believe me. You might have a few in the constellation, but there’s the pole star that guides all your travels.
I suppose that’s what separates writers who use typewriters from those who use pencils, pens or other paraphernalia. Pencils wear down. Pens run out of ink. Computers lack soul. A typewriter is your constant companion. It has shape, form, function that never wears out. It’s a bit of you. You can call it up in your mind. It’s always there, waiting for you to write. After a while, it’s hard to imagine any journey without your typewriter. (Though I suppose, the pen and pencil crowd would say a typewriter is just more junk to get between you and your writing.)
And only a typewriter nut would swear there’s a creature who lives in their machine. It’s weird to think about it and kind of scary sometimes, but when I need that extra boost all I need do is write on my typewriter. The cosmic tinkling of my fingers brings her to life. Summons her. Powers her. Perhaps it’s just the levers of quantum mechanics activating electrons, protons, neutrons and photons that bridge the cosmic divide.
Oh golly, now I’ve really gone off the mark I’m afraid. After all, the photo in this post suggests a comparison of the Royal standard against the Hermes Rocket.
Lets flip back a few moments to that time where I made the decision to pursue the portable typewriter rather than the standard sized edition. While there were many fine blogs devoted to typewriters, none seemed to offer the pros and cons and other issues when deciding on a typewriter.
In my ignorance, I dismissed the larger machine as being slow and clumsy. After all, my fleet fingers were trained on computer keyboard, and what could be more fleet than the smaller typewriter? How wrong I was.
If anything, the portable is the poor cousin of the standard. Portables were designed when you needed something in a pinch or couldn’t afford the gold standard. Perhaps that’s why you see the famous writers poised over their portables, it was all they could afford! Plus, they were a vagary lot, shifty, always moving, one step ahead of creditors, if not the law. A portable was easily stashed and setup in new quarters without much fuss. And the most suspect of writers, sports journalists, used Rockets and Letteras due to the tight confines of the press box. There really wasn’t much choice. A writer using a standard machine was well-to-do in an established home who lived on a steady stream of praise and paychecks. While portables are fine typewriters for getting the job done, they just can’t compare to the stability and sure-footedness of the standard.
Despite its age and lack of upkeep, the 1930s Royal in the picture requires very little effort to strike a key. It almost feels self-powered. Plus, it’s super hard to get the keys to jam. Perhaps due to its quickness, you just can’t outpace this thing. It can take whatever you throw at it. Super nimble. It blew me away the first time I typed on it. And after using it for a while, portables felt flimsy. Even the bell on the standard Royal is large and makes a resounding ding. It’s an awesome sound. It’s the sound of real work getting down. The keys also make a reassuring thunk-thunk-thunk. And with a machine this size, it’s not slipping around on your desk. Put a pad under it to help dampen the sound.
This is probably reason numero uno for not having the standard in the home, they’re loud. A roomful of these must’ve been deafening. I can see why “quiet” was often part of the portable name, nipping any potential strife in the bud. Perhaps this explained why many writers preferred the portable. They weren’t making any money and that horrific racket they made only fortified those around that they should get a real job and stop bothering the world. Or perhaps, the only time to write was in the off-hours of the night or pre-dawn. The quieter the machine, the less flack taken. Computers have solved this problem. Nobody really knows what you’re doing. All evidence of your life’s work cleverly hidden in recursive folders with non-sensical names that you’ve even forgot what you’ve written.
If you’re still tinkering with typewriters and looking for the one, consider the standard. Find a nice solid desk with plenty of room. Make it your shrine. A good lamp. Two wire baskets. One for blanks. The other for done. Devote 2 hours a day and pretty soon it’ll add up. It’s a titan sized effort, but with a titan typewriter on your side, your muse will have the muscle to pull you through.