Ode to the typewriter: Analogue poetry in motion
I regret the passing of the typewriter. There is something so satisfying about a mechanical device that transmits individual key presses, gracefully, into the written word. I love the feel of a mechanical keyboard, I actually love the appearance of crisp Pica or Courier on the virgin white page.
That's why I own a few old typewriters that I occasionally dust off and use for half a sheet of A4 before realising that my rose-coloured glasses have led me astray for the umpteenth time. I never learn or, at least, I forget that I never learn. The A is sticking, the ribbon is losing its ink, I've pressed the wrong key and have to uncork the bottle of TippEx liquid. Those were the days. Days of leisure, endless drafts and redrafts, mistakes on the last line of the page, start again.
On the other hand, there is no soul in creating an email or, even, a letter in Pages or Word. One day, I am sure, the typewriter will be resurrected, along with little bottles of TippEx and frustrating strips of correcting tape. Just to make us feel needed again.