The Typewriter

Boy, do I hate typewriters. Actually, I suppose I shouldn't say that I hate all typewriters. After all, I don't know all typewriters. But I sure as blazes have no great fondness for this one sitting in front of me now. I mean, it just doesn't do anything. Not by itself, at any rate. I practically have to reach inside the miserable contraption and pull each word out by the roots. What makes it all so much worse, is that at first I really didn't think it was going to be that way. For a machine that delivers so little, there was a time when it seemed to promise so much.

I can remember when we first got together. It all began one afternoon, as I was setting in front of another, older typewriter, a machine that had been with me for some twelve years, plunking away on some piece of deathless prose. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, even in mid-word, the thing died. Not quietly, mind you, it never did anything quietly. There was a puff of smoke, a grinding of gears, a shower of sprockets. Seldom one to miss the obvious, it dawned on me that something was wrong. I stopped plunking. Oddly enough, the typewriter did not. It looked up at me, blanked its question mark, coughed its tab clear, quivered its margin release and it was over.

Well, the scene changes. In my mind's eye, I am standing in the middle of a large office supply store directly in front of the most gorgeous typewriter you have ever seen. In a flash, old alliances were forgotten. I was involved, heart and soul, with this new machine. It didn't come cheaply, such things never do. But no matter, I had to have it. What a wealth of beauty! With its gleaming keys, its silky smooth rollers, automatic power return, repeating space advance bar, even a built-in roll of correction tape. (I noted this last with a chuckle. Who could possibly make a mistake using such a machine as this?)

Finally, at home. There it was, set up on its own little table. It gleamed in the light of the desk lamp like a polished jewel. The quiet hum of its motor filled the room with the heavy air of promise. I sat down, slipped a blank sheet of paper into the thing, and settled back, waiting to be washed away in a tidal wave of words. What could possibly stem the flow through such a gem?

Time passes, an hour to be precise. And I am still settled back, the motor is still humming, and the paper is still blank. Somehow, this all isn't working out the way it was supposed to. There was no tidal wave, there wasn't even a trickle. It all was becoming painfully clear to me. For all the gleaming keys and silky rollers, the process of putting thoughts into words on paper was going to be just as much work as it ever was. This new relationship, between myself and this machine, was not going to be very much different from any other, and the mistake had been in expecting that it should be. The hypnotic beauty of the thing, and the attraction I first felt, was certainly a help in getting the relationship started, but it was equally certainly no guarantee that it would continue, or that anything particularly valuable was going to come of it. That would depend not nearly so much on what I expected it to do for me, but rather on how much I was willing to do with it.

Perhaps I had misread that "promise" I talked about. Perhaps the only thing really being promised was a readiness to do a part of the job that needed doing, a readiness to contribute to the relationship, not supply it. Perhaps there really isn't very much difference after all between the brand new machine and the old clunker with whirring gears and spouting sprockets. Perhaps they both demand the same of me... the best that I can do, no less than that, and both promise the same... the best that they can do, no more than that.

Well, I suppose there is a moral in all of this. Maybe if we scratch out typewriters and insert spouses, parents, children, friends, any relationship at all. So, I guess I really should take back what I said. I don't really hate this typewriter. But sometimes just looking at it reminds me of how much of what happens, or doesn't happen, depends on me, on what I am willing to put into the relationship. So anyway, I guess I'd better get started working on this article. With a typewriter this beautiful, how hard can it be?

From 1980 through 1982, Father Sandell served as Chaplain to the Bishop O'Reilly Council No. 3918,Grafton, North Dakota Chapter of the Knights of Columbus. "Scattered Thoughts" is a collection of essays based on columns originally written for the Chaplain's Corner, section of the Council's monthly newsletter.