typewriters are old and i have never used one before. i like the cling noise it makes when you have to change it to the other side. i think it would be annoying to have to keep moving that thing though. i like computers/laptops better.
The type-set and the mind ready. Relention is a frailty unveiled. There’s a new time and a departure, a dissolving of bonds is clear. “It’s time to choose a side now.”
I went to get my typerwriter. It was very dusty and old. I blew off all the dust and got to work. “Come on Corin… you can write this story” I muttered to myself while trying to repair my old typewriter. I cannot believe I was just now getting started on this project. I sat down and got to work at last.
Letting my fingers do the work, I just let my mind wonder as I touched the wonderful keys of the typewriter. Words flew from my fingers onto the page, making a story, a wonderful new world from the keystrokes.
My father took us to the shop on Sunday mornings after Mass He would have work to do and he would leave us in the office with the intercom humming and I would sit on the cracked leather chair that belonged to Miss Julie during the week and practice the writers life in my straw bonnet and white socks and blue seersucker dress.
so old fashioned…I saw a movie once where a woman used a typewriter claiming it brought out her creativity…no, well maybe. computers are the now. I wonder if I will ever feel about a computer the way I do about a typewriter.
typewriters, however old, serve a genuinely antique purpose nowadays. They are cool looking, and whenever i think about them, i picture the distressed writer or author, stressing over his latest work in the wee hours of the night, crumpling papers and throwing them out, only to start over.
i don’t have a typewriter. i wish i did. i also wish i had something less blatantly stupid to say than what I just said. well then…this is awkward. o.O
la la la.
something that I would love to spend all day on
moulin rouge when hes writing his sorty
a day of nothin to ingest but coffee and cigarettes
creativity flowing, just like the smoke, and spilling just like the coffeee.
a rainy day.
God, I love typewriters. There’s something so permanent, irreplaceable about something written by typewriter. If I want to say “I’ve been in Paris for a week and it’s been great!” I have 4,000 different modes of electronic communication available to me–but to say “I miss your smile,” sometimes only a typewriter will do.
Tick tick goes the typewriter as each letter dances on the paper to produce that beautiful piece of poetry. It was where imagination came to life and mere words turned into legends.
i think typewriter font is cool and it makes me happy when i see old stuff like typewriters. my great grandmother gave me a typewriter. i really wish i had typewritten cards to give friends. but i don’t! so i guess this just means i need to work on my gift giving skills. thanks for the reminder, i’m depressed now.
I love typewriters. They were the precerser to the computer which has opened up technology for the rest of the things we have today. They have made life so much easier for everyone, and they help in all aspects of life. They made it easier to write books and things like newspapers and magazines.
striking the keys, she sobbed heavily. the words wouldn’t come out like she’d planned, and they controlled her fingers rather than the other way around.
A typewriter was living outside the orange cafe when the orange cafe fell down and the typewriter got injured. He went to the hospital with his mom and dad disapointed and sad. During that time I almost died, but I was relived I didn’t. That’s why I’m not writing any thing about it, just talking. And I hated writing anyway, so I guess good luck came to me twice today, the deadly thing i was talking about earlirer, and I don’t have to write! Sucess!!!!!!!
A typewriter was living outside the orange cafe when the orange cafe fell down and the typewriter got injured. He went to the hospital with his mom and dad disapointed and sad. During that time I almost died, but I was relived I didn’t. That’s why I’m not writing any thing about it, just talking.
I remember the way the keys clickty-clacked as I sat next to the boy with the dark hair. His name was Taylor, and he had this typewriter that he brought to all the writing meetings, in a steel box like it was a secret agent’s agenda hidden away. And when he unfolded it, and everyone else pulled out laptops, he looked so strange. But we adjusted to the clickty-clack, and he was just another member – one of the old timers, like me with all my fountain pens and in the end, we all worked with the same medium in our stories: words.
I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. What would Grandpa say? How would he feel? What questions would he ask?
I tried to gain his thoughts, but I couldn’t break into his mind. Like always he was always one step above me
Clickity-click.
A barrel.
Thunder.
The drums of war and the typist sits measuring the dead with the steady click of a typewriter. The boat heaves as the wind and waves break starboard.
Clickety clack and clackety click, ancient technology that used to be so cool. But now we have computers, and laptops, and even iPod touches. Still, typewriter’s are rare and expensive.
clickety clack clack clickety, writing words that nobody will ever see. i never know what i’m thinking until it’s all out on paper. so clickety clack click my feelings into something more tangible to myself.
typewriting like the old days and reliving the past like it was the last day on earth. the letters, pressing delicately on the page as she tries to compose a story built on the foundations of earth’s clay and heaven’s inspiration. typewriting like there was no tomorrow, click clack, click clack.
oh typewriter! if only we still could use you for assignment in school. the clacking of the keys and the ink running off the ribbons would keep us in high spirits during this time of impending doom- finals!
My God, I cannot remember the last time I used a typewriter. Woah, wait, I got it. It was actually in 2005 when I worked for a realtor/investor. There was a typewriter in the office that we used for something. I am not sure exactly what that something was…
He could listen to beautiful melodies
until he dies,
sink into the enormous hole
of notes,
acoustic guitar
quietly playing in a corner
far away from the corridors
and the crowds,
the yells and the shouts.
He could read poetry
until ever letter
sounds as though
it’s being pressed on a typewriter,
the a looking
like the leader,
the r becoming average,
like the crowd
drowning out the guitar,
dulling the strings,
stopping the vibration of the air
with the loudness.
cute and kitsch, something you could sit at and write long interesting detective novels, something like Sherlock Holmes. I get the feeling of cobbled streets and smoking rooms, used by very important people, doing very important work.
I saw her fingers caress the keys. Heard the tap of the letters being depressed into the machine. Letters appeared on the crisp white paper, creating a story, a wonderful world.
uninspired, but there all the same.
the letters in the box
typed so careful but full of mistakes.
i love my old typewriter
even though
it’s so unforgiving
It began when she sat down at the typewriter. Everything seemed to hit her at once and the emotions that she had been holding in for so long finally burst. She broke down and sobbed, her tears hitting the faded keys that she once used to write about the things she loved.
The clacking of typewriter keys could be heard from the attic. The door creaks open and you see a girl, sitting in the light of the nearby window, typing away, not breaking eyecontact with the page before her. Letters filled it to the edge and *Cling!* the bar is back at the other side. She keeps writing, sitting in blissful peace.
What can one do with this word? I sit and I smoke and I drink, yet I still stare at this ancient thing and wonder.
What do you do?
Why do I waste my time?
I can’t even imagine what one may want with you. You’re useless. Damn typewriter.
Oh thank the heavens and all below them for the death of the typewriter. It’s clunky interface, the permanence of its mark, those endless bottles of White-out, good riddance to them all!
Now I can sit and contemplate a blank screen, rather than a blank page. And you can’t compulsively check Facebook on a typewriter either…
The typewiter made a sharp clicking sound as the professor hit his bony fingers on the keys. I sat at the table across the room trying to think about the latest thing that was oppressing my heart.
typewriters are old and i have never used one before. i like the cling noise it makes when you have to change it to the other side. i think it would be annoying to have to keep moving that thing though. i like computers/laptops better.
The type-set and the mind ready. Relention is a frailty unveiled. There’s a new time and a departure, a dissolving of bonds is clear. “It’s time to choose a side now.”
I went to get my typerwriter. It was very dusty and old. I blew off all the dust and got to work. “Come on Corin… you can write this story” I muttered to myself while trying to repair my old typewriter. I cannot believe I was just now getting started on this project. I sat down and got to work at last.
Letting my fingers do the work, I just let my mind wonder as I touched the wonderful keys of the typewriter. Words flew from my fingers onto the page, making a story, a wonderful new world from the keystrokes.
i keep a typewriter in the attic
it doesn’t work
no replacement ribbons
keys are missing and it keeps the lid
(firmly in place) on my books
My father took us to the shop on Sunday mornings after Mass He would have work to do and he would leave us in the office with the intercom humming and I would sit on the cracked leather chair that belonged to Miss Julie during the week and practice the writers life in my straw bonnet and white socks and blue seersucker dress.
so old fashioned…I saw a movie once where a woman used a typewriter claiming it brought out her creativity…no, well maybe. computers are the now. I wonder if I will ever feel about a computer the way I do about a typewriter.
typewriters, however old, serve a genuinely antique purpose nowadays. They are cool looking, and whenever i think about them, i picture the distressed writer or author, stressing over his latest work in the wee hours of the night, crumpling papers and throwing them out, only to start over.
i don’t have a typewriter. i wish i did. i also wish i had something less blatantly stupid to say than what I just said. well then…this is awkward. o.O
la la la.
I used to go to class thinking I was the the best writer in class. Then Kathy showed up. Do you know what a typewriter is?
something that I would love to spend all day on
moulin rouge when hes writing his sorty
a day of nothin to ingest but coffee and cigarettes
creativity flowing, just like the smoke, and spilling just like the coffeee.
a rainy day.
God, I love typewriters. There’s something so permanent, irreplaceable about something written by typewriter. If I want to say “I’ve been in Paris for a week and it’s been great!” I have 4,000 different modes of electronic communication available to me–but to say “I miss your smile,” sometimes only a typewriter will do.
reassuring clunks. methodical buttons. irreversable mistakes. long winded poems
anique shops
misspelling typos, and grammatical errors
overthinking.
Tick tick goes the typewriter as each letter dances on the paper to produce that beautiful piece of poetry. It was where imagination came to life and mere words turned into legends.
WHAT???????????????????? MOMMY???????????????????????????
HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO???????????????????????????????????????????
ANYBODY HERE?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
WAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
i think typewriter font is cool and it makes me happy when i see old stuff like typewriters. my great grandmother gave me a typewriter. i really wish i had typewritten cards to give friends. but i don’t! so i guess this just means i need to work on my gift giving skills. thanks for the reminder, i’m depressed now.
I love typewriters. They were the precerser to the computer which has opened up technology for the rest of the things we have today. They have made life so much easier for everyone, and they help in all aspects of life. They made it easier to write books and things like newspapers and magazines.
striking the keys, she sobbed heavily. the words wouldn’t come out like she’d planned, and they controlled her fingers rather than the other way around.
book, old, berlin, courrier, good books, screen play
A typewriter was living outside the orange cafe when the orange cafe fell down and the typewriter got injured. He went to the hospital with his mom and dad disapointed and sad. During that time I almost died, but I was relived I didn’t. That’s why I’m not writing any thing about it, just talking. And I hated writing anyway, so I guess good luck came to me twice today, the deadly thing i was talking about earlirer, and I don’t have to write! Sucess!!!!!!!
A typewriter was living outside the orange cafe when the orange cafe fell down and the typewriter got injured. He went to the hospital with his mom and dad disapointed and sad. During that time I almost died, but I was relived I didn’t. That’s why I’m not writing any thing about it, just talking.
I remember the way the keys clickty-clacked as I sat next to the boy with the dark hair. His name was Taylor, and he had this typewriter that he brought to all the writing meetings, in a steel box like it was a secret agent’s agenda hidden away. And when he unfolded it, and everyone else pulled out laptops, he looked so strange. But we adjusted to the clickty-clack, and he was just another member – one of the old timers, like me with all my fountain pens and in the end, we all worked with the same medium in our stories: words.
I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. What would Grandpa say? How would he feel? What questions would he ask?
I tried to gain his thoughts, but I couldn’t break into his mind. Like always he was always one step above me
Clickity-click.
A barrel.
Thunder.
The drums of war and the typist sits measuring the dead with the steady click of a typewriter. The boat heaves as the wind and waves break starboard.
one that is antiquated now with the computer is the typewriter—electric or manual—-i had both —and made many mistakes over and over and over and over—
Clickety clack and clackety click, ancient technology that used to be so cool. But now we have computers, and laptops, and even iPod touches. Still, typewriter’s are rare and expensive.
clickety clack clack clickety, writing words that nobody will ever see. i never know what i’m thinking until it’s all out on paper. so clickety clack click my feelings into something more tangible to myself.
typewriting like the old days and reliving the past like it was the last day on earth. the letters, pressing delicately on the page as she tries to compose a story built on the foundations of earth’s clay and heaven’s inspiration. typewriting like there was no tomorrow, click clack, click clack.
oh typewriter! if only we still could use you for assignment in school. the clacking of the keys and the ink running off the ribbons would keep us in high spirits during this time of impending doom- finals!
I want a baby it wont happen why I need it to happen I feel like god is punishing me. Its all I think about why
My God, I cannot remember the last time I used a typewriter. Woah, wait, I got it. It was actually in 2005 when I worked for a realtor/investor. There was a typewriter in the office that we used for something. I am not sure exactly what that something was…
He could listen to beautiful melodies
until he dies,
sink into the enormous hole
of notes,
acoustic guitar
quietly playing in a corner
far away from the corridors
and the crowds,
the yells and the shouts.
He could read poetry
until ever letter
sounds as though
it’s being pressed on a typewriter,
the a looking
like the leader,
the r becoming average,
like the crowd
drowning out the guitar,
dulling the strings,
stopping the vibration of the air
with the loudness.
cute and kitsch, something you could sit at and write long interesting detective novels, something like Sherlock Holmes. I get the feeling of cobbled streets and smoking rooms, used by very important people, doing very important work.
I saw her fingers caress the keys. Heard the tap of the letters being depressed into the machine. Letters appeared on the crisp white paper, creating a story, a wonderful world.
uninspired, but there all the same.
the letters in the box
typed so careful but full of mistakes.
i love my old typewriter
even though
it’s so unforgiving
It began when she sat down at the typewriter. Everything seemed to hit her at once and the emotions that she had been holding in for so long finally burst. She broke down and sobbed, her tears hitting the faded keys that she once used to write about the things she loved.
The clacking of typewriter keys could be heard from the attic. The door creaks open and you see a girl, sitting in the light of the nearby window, typing away, not breaking eyecontact with the page before her. Letters filled it to the edge and *Cling!* the bar is back at the other side. She keeps writing, sitting in blissful peace.
What can one do with this word? I sit and I smoke and I drink, yet I still stare at this ancient thing and wonder.
What do you do?
Why do I waste my time?
I can’t even imagine what one may want with you. You’re useless. Damn typewriter.
Oh thank the heavens and all below them for the death of the typewriter. It’s clunky interface, the permanence of its mark, those endless bottles of White-out, good riddance to them all!
Now I can sit and contemplate a blank screen, rather than a blank page. And you can’t compulsively check Facebook on a typewriter either…
The typewiter made a sharp clicking sound as the professor hit his bony fingers on the keys. I sat at the table across the room trying to think about the latest thing that was oppressing my heart.