The very first book I wrote, a 400-page western romance about a young girl who'd been rescued by William Bonney, was written on a machine that looked like this:
When computers came along, however, I was thrilled. No more ink on my fingers! No more white-out! No more wasted paper because I'd spent half a day writing a page that would now get cut! I can't say my productivity actually went up, but my efficiency sure did.
In the past fifteen years, however, I've started longing for a typewriter again. I love the way they look, and I love the way the keys feel under my fingertips. I'm so in love that I have been known to get a little shiver when I hear a bunch of them going all at once. It's my own little Mad Men porn.
You know what's funny? They're making a comeback. Some people never left them behind, but with all the security hacks in recent years, they're seen as unhackable. That's not actually true, but it's a matter of perspective. With digital publishing, it's not quite as viable as a way of streamlining work, but you know what? I'd get one. In a heartbeat. Maybe not this model, and maybe not for everything I produced, but I'd do it.
I still have that first novel, by the way. It's in a folder I've taped together twice over the years, tucked into the bottom of a box of keepsakes I can't bring myself to get rid of. It'll be one of those items my kids pull out after I die and wonder why I kept it. Then maybe they'll read it. Well, my daughter might. My son would reach the first kiss and walk out of the room. And I hope it makes her smile.