Written by: Aram Adler-Smith
A few months before sitting down to write this post, I purchased a late 1920s-era Royal Model O portable typewriter in black. It was a brave and exciting decision, motivated by a desire to reduce options in my poetic practice. By options, I mean the unwieldy slew of technological aids, offerings, and potentialities one accesses while typing on a computer. Predominantly, I was inspired to artificially limit my options by the negative principle of “afterthink” (revising or altering a text after its natural and spontaneous conception) that was so intrinsic to Jack Kerouac’s writing philosophy. “Never afterthink to ‘improve’ or defray impressions” is what Kerouac said on the subject, and what more literal way to employ this idea than by irrevocably impressing my words onto the page.
Of course, Kerouac ideated on “afterthink” in a time when typewriters were the standard writing tools of poets; however, with the onset of computer writing, “afterthink” has now become a monstrous leviathan battering poets tirelessly, such that even reverting back to earlier technology is a victory against it. The red squiggly line denoting an error and the minimal effort required to fix any mistake contribute to “afterthink’s” modern inescapability; it is thus all the more desirable for a poet to embrace simpler writing that a typewriter allows for.
Typing on my Royal Model O is not only much simpler, but vastly more sincere. My physical motions produce the words on the page; this fosters a body-to-page connection entirely new to me. As I write, I live with the words, feeling them clack into place while my ideas materialize. I must admit that this is freeing on multiple fronts. First is the loss of external influence over my words: there is no spell checker and no technological system forcing me into a normative writing style. The typewriter privatizes my writing, leaving me as the sole arbiter of all creative decisions. Here, the irrevocable nature of a typewritten mistake turns each poem into something beyond me. From typing the incorrect letter to adding an extra space, the inability to change what you write makes it a special process, characterized by the selective curation of randomness. Second is the leisurely, less efficient, and mechanical creation that the typewriter demands: I slow, think, process, feel, and ultimately write better poetry.
My typewriter is approximately one hundred years old, and I know it will continue to give me the satisfaction it does for as long as I possess it. The benefits I have gained from writing on my Royal Model O are undeniable. I hope that every poet may at least consider the possibility that a typewriter can provide them with something similar.
Featured Image Caption: An image of the Royal Model O typewriter in black. This specific typewriter was manufactured in 1937, slightly later than my own.
