I sat down. I began to type with no real purpose. I hit the keyboard, mashing away at the timely machine. It was old and weathered, and had a rusty film over it. But it was mine. And I loved it. I began to create and to enjoy. To feel and to be felt. It was mine to type on. Mine to spill my thoughts out onto.
you get to write on a type writer. people have created masterpieces on them. they are cool looking, I wish i could use one. I own a couple. they’re kinda confusing. oh well. lol. typewrites are sweet.
If I had one, I’d want it to be antiquated; because I think I’m cool and because the unobtainable or less readily available draw me in. Plus, I like aesthetically pleasing objects. But because I’m such a ridiculous, I want to punch you in the fucking face, kind of perfectionist, the poor bastard wouldn’t get used very much at all. Just sit there all purty like a trophy wife.
the typewriter stood on the table. old, forgotten, alone. the computer replaced it. the new version of Word made it old. people forgot the passion of hearing the tact, the sound of letters being put on paper. all we do now is stare in the screen and write. like a machine
I was shopping for christmas presents in an old antique store with my best friend sydney. She was wandering about looking for nothing in particular when she realized that she had always wanted a heavy old typewriter – “one that was horribly inefficient,” she said.
There are lots of kinds of typewriters, I think. There are the old ones, which probably fill really old people with nostalgia but just make me think about how much keyboards and the like have improved in the last – like, I don’t know when keyboards or typewriters were invented so I don’t know how many – years. And then there are the newer typewriters, like the one my mom has at her office, and I guess they’re just for typing out stuff which can’t be printed out.
She could just barely here the clink clink of the reporter’s typewriter as she hurried away from her interview. She never wanted to be there again. Yes, she wanted to find out who caused Casey’s death, but she felt that if she did find out, she wanted it to be a secret. Only she knows. Maybe that was selfish, or maybe that was normal.
i love typewriters. they are so unique and kind of loud but somehow really fun to write on. we had one in my church library and i used to writer notes to my mom. she still has one that says i love you mommy. it makes me happy that she kept it. there. typewriters rock.
In the dusty old room, sat the typewriter where I once wrote. It was a long time ago that my fingers graced it’s keys. But they birthed… they birthed tales. Not just stories, but full-fledged epics of existence.
The typewriter was up in the attic way in the corner, I went up there twice a year, and this year when I went up, there was a letter typed there waiting for me.
typewriter. so much better than word processor. i wish i could type all of the contents of my brain out on a piece of paper and fold it up and let it fly far far away. let the wind carry it to you, maybe. if you unfold it you’ll see that my heart is really all for you. no one else.
What is a keyboard but a modern typewriter? Unless you’re the type that’s a writer, then it can mean all the difference in the world. The clitter clat of of the keys like a litter of cats with fleas might make all the difference in the world to all those tiny… black… dots…
the typewriter was old. i remember seeing my mom use it back when i was a kid. come to think of it, she wasn’t very good at it. pressing one key at a time. slow and slowly. i used to sit in her office and watch her type. when she was away from her desk, printing or photocopying, i’d sneak in a few minutes. my favourite part was knocking back the elongated bar at the back to make it restart.
When you take a trip back down memory lane,
You realize things were so much simpler than they are now.
With all the technology around us, making life easier, we have lost sight of our roots. I’m filled with irony as I write at my computer, and wish for a simpler time.
There’s a table in my attic. Above it sits a poster for Connecticut College. I decorated the area when I was 14 and miserable. The tape is peeling and yellow now. Other magazine pictures have fallen off the wall. It’s sad.
Click. Clack.
Every word is strenuously written.
Knowing a mistake means to start over.
Knowing a mistake means a new beginning.
So maybe, the typewriter is lucky,
Because I don’t always get a blank page when I mess up.
Typewriters remind me of old movies. I see Orson Welles sitting at his desk in Citizen Kane, daring his friend to write badly about his wife. Typewriters, while not as fast as a computer, are certainly much more authoritative. They command respect.
The typewriter was cold and hard, a bit like the block in my brain. I sighed and my shoulders hunched, I couldn’t think of anything to put. I needed something that could sufficiently express my emotions, these feelings inside needed writing about but there was no way I could do it.
Typewriter emergin from the deepest, in the soul of a little child who lives in ourselves.
Liberating. Freedom. Is more about us than is from the rest of the world.
The thing is: we dont type about it.
we dont write about us
what we are
we need to typewrite about that…be the typewriter or our lives.
lovely words flow from my fingers depicting the days events as I try to uncloud my mind.
how can they remain lovely when my world is crashing around me?
thoughts come and go…never ending. then suddenly a bird or a squirrel will flutter by outside my window. the light reflects off the keyboard and I begin again.
new moment. new words.
She laid on bed, looking hopelessly at the typewriter, her hands caressing the letter cases, in position to start any time soon. But there were no words craving to escape; there was nothing she could say. But she laid still, awaiting restlessly for the inspiration to arrive.
I used to own a beautiful little typewriter. It was black and shiny. I used to type out all my letters and school papers. I had a laptop, but using the typewriter made me feel like those women I love from those old movies. Like the girls from “White Christmas”. I loved my typewriter. So I was heartbroken when my husband told me we had to sell it.
type type type type. i love to type. typwriters are made for typing. mmy sister has a typwriter. its like black. its pretty cool. it lives in a brief case in the back of her closet though because it broke. :( this is fun. im staring to get tense! OH NO TIMES UP!!!!
I was always fascinated by the typewriter in my grandfather’s study. It was a black, shiny object that sat upon his desk. Whenever I looked at it, it was a like a beam of light from above shone down on it, and I could almost hear the Hallelujah chorus.
I tap away at my
‘not-fly’
very old typewriter.
Whiter
than snow-white is the leaf.
My grief
is the machine, whose chief
problem is key-sticking
even with me picking
up keys to write this brief.
Eleanor tapped ceaselessly on the typewriter, never pausing in contemplation, not hesitating when distractions arose. In the next room, Mark’s eyes narrowed as he grew less patient with the incessant noise. Unable to take any more, he flung open the door and glared at her wordlessly. She didn’t stop typing, didn’t even look up. He grabbed the paper, pulling it out of the typewriter and ripping it as he did so. The first tear in their marriage. That stupid machine.
Wenn ich schnell schreiben will, ich meine so richtig schnell, also ohne irgendwelches Verhaken von Tasten und wie heißen die Dinger gleich nochmal, die Typen, und die langen Metallärmchen, an denen sie festgemacht sind, dann kann ich es mir einfach nicht leisten, eine Schreibmaschine zu benutzen.
like a typewriter. reading the words that scroll across the open terrain or your mind. these words just appear. have no fear. they’re all played out. we’ve done this before. we’re moving around with false pretenses. living a life someone’s lived before us. We’re reading off an unwritten script.
she begin typing out her life using a typewriter. she didn’t want to use her computer something using the typewriter made her feel older and more sophisticated and distinguished.
The click of the keys made it hard to concentrate, but I had to finish the letter. I had to tell them why I was about to jump off the side of a cliff into the ocean. I needed to end it all. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the clicking noise
Old, I guess, and more functional, cathartic. We are changing over into the digital age, and our satisfaction will derive from something besides that pounding and manual revisions. What? Printing? Will we stop needing to touch something to be convinced it is real? What about religion on the Internet? Is God on the Internet?
I sat down. I began to type with no real purpose. I hit the keyboard, mashing away at the timely machine. It was old and weathered, and had a rusty film over it. But it was mine. And I loved it. I began to create and to enjoy. To feel and to be felt. It was mine to type on. Mine to spill my thoughts out onto.
you get to write on a type writer. people have created masterpieces on them. they are cool looking, I wish i could use one. I own a couple. they’re kinda confusing. oh well. lol. typewrites are sweet.
“Type WRITAAAAAAAAH!”
WHAM!
I slapped it on her head, just like that. Nobody could believe it, but I did it. Call ME a butthead? WHAM! Typewriter in the head.
That’s how I roll.
typewriters are fantastic. I would like to have one. I’ve liked to have one all my life. A green one that’s really old. I used to dream about it.
If I had one, I’d want it to be antiquated; because I think I’m cool and because the unobtainable or less readily available draw me in. Plus, I like aesthetically pleasing objects. But because I’m such a ridiculous, I want to punch you in the fucking face, kind of perfectionist, the poor bastard wouldn’t get used very much at all. Just sit there all purty like a trophy wife.
Her nail snapped as she bashed out the letter to her boss on the ancient typewriter, making her swear under her breath.
The letter read “I Quit”
the typewriter stood on the table. old, forgotten, alone. the computer replaced it. the new version of Word made it old. people forgot the passion of hearing the tact, the sound of letters being put on paper. all we do now is stare in the screen and write. like a machine
I was shopping for christmas presents in an old antique store with my best friend sydney. She was wandering about looking for nothing in particular when she realized that she had always wanted a heavy old typewriter – “one that was horribly inefficient,” she said.
There are lots of kinds of typewriters, I think. There are the old ones, which probably fill really old people with nostalgia but just make me think about how much keyboards and the like have improved in the last – like, I don’t know when keyboards or typewriters were invented so I don’t know how many – years. And then there are the newer typewriters, like the one my mom has at her office, and I guess they’re just for typing out stuff which can’t be printed out.
Will someone, of someone, please get a Typewriter for the writer who can’t verbalize her feelings, but can only type them out for the world to read?
She could just barely here the clink clink of the reporter’s typewriter as she hurried away from her interview. She never wanted to be there again. Yes, she wanted to find out who caused Casey’s death, but she felt that if she did find out, she wanted it to be a secret. Only she knows. Maybe that was selfish, or maybe that was normal.
i love typewriters. they are so unique and kind of loud but somehow really fun to write on. we had one in my church library and i used to writer notes to my mom. she still has one that says i love you mommy. it makes me happy that she kept it. there. typewriters rock.
I chose a random direction to walk in, then asked him, “Why have you never spoken to me before?’
“I have.”
“When?”
“Remember when you were young, and used to sit at the typewriter, randomly hitting keys and sometimes a sentence would appear?”
“That was YOU?”
“That was me.”
“I thought it was just a coincidence.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “What in bloody hell do you think a coincidence IS?”
In the dusty old room, sat the typewriter where I once wrote. It was a long time ago that my fingers graced it’s keys. But they birthed… they birthed tales. Not just stories, but full-fledged epics of existence.
The typewriter was up in the attic way in the corner, I went up there twice a year, and this year when I went up, there was a letter typed there waiting for me.
The soft click
Of elegant cream-
colored slick
paper ream
of the thought
that you think
shall be wrought
in black ink.
typewriter. so much better than word processor. i wish i could type all of the contents of my brain out on a piece of paper and fold it up and let it fly far far away. let the wind carry it to you, maybe. if you unfold it you’ll see that my heart is really all for you. no one else.
What is a keyboard but a modern typewriter? Unless you’re the type that’s a writer, then it can mean all the difference in the world. The clitter clat of of the keys like a litter of cats with fleas might make all the difference in the world to all those tiny… black… dots…
the typewriter was old. i remember seeing my mom use it back when i was a kid. come to think of it, she wasn’t very good at it. pressing one key at a time. slow and slowly. i used to sit in her office and watch her type. when she was away from her desk, printing or photocopying, i’d sneak in a few minutes. my favourite part was knocking back the elongated bar at the back to make it restart.
The typewriter sat on the table. Thebribbon of White paper waited. A rainbow of words stirred and the rain fell.
When you take a trip back down memory lane,
You realize things were so much simpler than they are now.
With all the technology around us, making life easier, we have lost sight of our roots. I’m filled with irony as I write at my computer, and wish for a simpler time.
There’s a table in my attic. Above it sits a poster for Connecticut College. I decorated the area when I was 14 and miserable. The tape is peeling and yellow now. Other magazine pictures have fallen off the wall. It’s sad.
Click. Clack.
Every word is strenuously written.
Knowing a mistake means to start over.
Knowing a mistake means a new beginning.
So maybe, the typewriter is lucky,
Because I don’t always get a blank page when I mess up.
Typewriters remind me of old movies. I see Orson Welles sitting at his desk in Citizen Kane, daring his friend to write badly about his wife. Typewriters, while not as fast as a computer, are certainly much more authoritative. They command respect.
The typewriter was cold and hard, a bit like the block in my brain. I sighed and my shoulders hunched, I couldn’t think of anything to put. I needed something that could sufficiently express my emotions, these feelings inside needed writing about but there was no way I could do it.
Typewriter emergin from the deepest, in the soul of a little child who lives in ourselves.
Liberating. Freedom. Is more about us than is from the rest of the world.
The thing is: we dont type about it.
we dont write about us
what we are
we need to typewrite about that…be the typewriter or our lives.
lovely words flow from my fingers depicting the days events as I try to uncloud my mind.
how can they remain lovely when my world is crashing around me?
thoughts come and go…never ending. then suddenly a bird or a squirrel will flutter by outside my window. the light reflects off the keyboard and I begin again.
new moment. new words.
She laid on bed, looking hopelessly at the typewriter, her hands caressing the letter cases, in position to start any time soon. But there were no words craving to escape; there was nothing she could say. But she laid still, awaiting restlessly for the inspiration to arrive.
I used to own a beautiful little typewriter. It was black and shiny. I used to type out all my letters and school papers. I had a laptop, but using the typewriter made me feel like those women I love from those old movies. Like the girls from “White Christmas”. I loved my typewriter. So I was heartbroken when my husband told me we had to sell it.
type type type type. i love to type. typwriters are made for typing. mmy sister has a typwriter. its like black. its pretty cool. it lives in a brief case in the back of her closet though because it broke. :( this is fun. im staring to get tense! OH NO TIMES UP!!!!
I was always fascinated by the typewriter in my grandfather’s study. It was a black, shiny object that sat upon his desk. Whenever I looked at it, it was a like a beam of light from above shone down on it, and I could almost hear the Hallelujah chorus.
I tap away at my
‘not-fly’
very old typewriter.
Whiter
than snow-white is the leaf.
My grief
is the machine, whose chief
problem is key-sticking
even with me picking
up keys to write this brief.
Eleanor tapped ceaselessly on the typewriter, never pausing in contemplation, not hesitating when distractions arose. In the next room, Mark’s eyes narrowed as he grew less patient with the incessant noise. Unable to take any more, he flung open the door and glared at her wordlessly. She didn’t stop typing, didn’t even look up. He grabbed the paper, pulling it out of the typewriter and ripping it as he did so. The first tear in their marriage. That stupid machine.
typing computer essay headache report more headache i dnt want a headache!!!!! ahhhhhhhhhhhh
Wenn ich schnell schreiben will, ich meine so richtig schnell, also ohne irgendwelches Verhaken von Tasten und wie heißen die Dinger gleich nochmal, die Typen, und die langen Metallärmchen, an denen sie festgemacht sind, dann kann ich es mir einfach nicht leisten, eine Schreibmaschine zu benutzen.
makes me think of hank and his ritual when he finishes a book on his typewriter. The three Ws. Whisky. Weed. and Warren Zevon.
like a typewriter. reading the words that scroll across the open terrain or your mind. these words just appear. have no fear. they’re all played out. we’ve done this before. we’re moving around with false pretenses. living a life someone’s lived before us. We’re reading off an unwritten script.
she begin typing out her life using a typewriter. she didn’t want to use her computer something using the typewriter made her feel older and more sophisticated and distinguished.
The click of the keys made it hard to concentrate, but I had to finish the letter. I had to tell them why I was about to jump off the side of a cliff into the ocean. I needed to end it all. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the clicking noise
Old, I guess, and more functional, cathartic. We are changing over into the digital age, and our satisfaction will derive from something besides that pounding and manual revisions. What? Printing? Will we stop needing to touch something to be convinced it is real? What about religion on the Internet? Is God on the Internet?