Musty smell. Keys that stick. Heavy as hell. I love it. I bought my new (old?) typewriter at a thrift store a couple weeks ago for 20 bucks. Briana looked it up on the internets. Turns out it’s the same traveling model used in the ’40s by folks in the Army. It’s in great condition – just needed a little elbow grease.
It’s awesome in all it’s glory, but you probably won’t see me lugging it around town anytime soon. I can only imagine the dirty looks I would get in a coffee shop pounding away on the keyboard. It’s so loud, but it makes writing more passionate and aggressive. I’ve already been getting back into writing some poetry.
I’m hoping to find someone locally that has a love for the old things. I want to take care of it. I wonder who owned it before me? Did they write an epic novel? The loveliest of love letters? Or did it just sit in it’s box, a status symbol? I have it displayed prominently in my home for visitors to play with or for my own moments of inspiration.
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