I know what you’re thinkin’g“Oh no, here comes another old fossil ranting about the good gone days when things clicked and clacked instead of beeping and blooping. And yes. That’s exactly what this is.
I live in Tower Sector 9-C, right under the floating sushi bar and three floors above the Self Aware Yoga Studio which, by the way, tried to sue me for “negative energy” last week. Everyone around me tapping raway on holo-screens or those creepy neural link things. You ever see someone type with their brain? Makes my spine itchy.
Meanwhile, me I’m sitting in my corner unit, punching keys on a 200-year-old Royal Quiet DeLuxe typewriter, bless her rusty soul. Sure, it jams sometimes. Sure, I once broke a nail trying to fix the ribbon. And yeah, the neighbors complain about the angry hammering noises at 2 AM. BUT when I hit that key, it means something am feeling.
I like the sound it makes. That little “DING” at the end of each line? That’s better than any dopamine hit your brain chip gives you. You can’t replicate that joy. Not with all your fancy AI writing assistants (no offense if you're one of them reading this. But also a little offense.)
Also, no one can hack a typewriter. Boom. Ever thought of that? You can keep your encrypted, auto-saved, synced whatever. My pages are safe in a shoebox under my bed, right next to my vintage peanut butter stash and a half-broken raygun.
And the best part? The typos. Yep. That’s right. I make mistakes. And I see them. And I groan and smack my forehead and fix it with real quite white-out. And that, that is art, baby.
I don’t care if the whole Intergalactic Writing League laughs at me. One day, when solar flares wipe out all digital archives, guess whose stories will survive?
Mine. On crispy old paper. Probably smelling a little like toast.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to un-jam the “E” key again. It’s acting up like a spoiled cat.
Just have a feeling of sharing this and it gave me the joy of the olden days.
