Lansdale Unchained #4:
Typewriter Mystique, the Bull of it
There’s a myth I hear every now and then, and it’s right up there with All is Right and God is in his heaven. It’s also stupid and dated, but it’s still going around. It’s the myth that the typewriter is the true method of writing. Or to be more precise, any instrument beyond the development of the typewriter is evil. And that to be a good writer you should stay away from the word processor, because it gives you bad habits and makes you sloppy and makes you less inventive and less careful. 
This is a curious position. Especially since it’s way outdated and the war between typewriters and word processors is over. Word processors won. But, alas, I still hear this curious stupidity from time to time. Writers saying they have to stick to the typewriter because it is the only honest tool of creation for the writer. These folks must be possessed, which is another way of saying they are full of shit. 
Most of these writers at one time or another changed typewriters, and usually because it had electricity or you could correct with something other than white out, or it had a few computer elements, like seeing the line you’re writing displayed on a narrow screen about the width of a couple of number two pencils. Of course, some are still pounding manual typewriters, and to that, all I can say is you go man or woman, you go. And bless your heart. But the typewriter being the actual tool of the Writing Gods…Well…maybe not. 
Some of the people I’ve heard spread this myth surprise me. Some of them are, or were, the movers and shakers in their fields of writing. Most of the writers I’m talking about are successful writers. Some of them more so in the past than now. No criticism there. That is the way of things. The point is they are from a generation that began on typewriters. I’m from that generation. I know. There is something magical about the idea of a typewriter, and recently when I saw once again, All the President’s Men, and saw the reporters using typewriters, and I could hear the clatter in the newsroom, I felt a pang of nostalgia. I have had similar feelings for the hula hoop, the slinky, and Lincoln logs, but it passes. 
As one grows older nostalgia sets in. You like what went before better than you like what’s coming down the pipe. That is a scary place to be. I’m not saying nostalgia is all bad. It isn’t. It has fueled many a story and book I’ve written, but I’m also aware that I’m living in the here and now and the past was probably only marginally better than the future if it was better at all. When you’re young, your heart is lighter due to lack of responsibility (exceptions, of course), the discovery of your sex organs, and only a generally awareness of your mortality. That last one. It’s a biggie. 
As one ages, and in this case, as the writer ages, he discovers the need to express his deathless ideas. My generation more often than not, chose the typewriter. Some, of course, never discovered it. Some of us (not me) wrote, or still write, longhand and hire someone else to type it up. I’ve heard those who write longhand begrudge the typewriter because those who use it don’t take as much time with the work. Doing it long hand makes them ponder, consider; they have to mark out and work harder to reread it. They like to say the typewriter is just another barrier between themselves and the page. 
The typewriter people say the same thing about the word processor. 
Many years ago, when I was still using the typewriter, and had no plans to change, a number of writers I knew were beginning to use the word processor. It was becoming popular. Damn new-fangled stuff. 
I was at a World Fantasy Convention, sitting at a table in a hotel with a bunch of other writers, me at the time not a brand new kid on the block, but someone who was relatively new, and down at the end of our table was one of the gray beards. Actually, I don’t think gray had settled into his beard yet. It was still black, but the symbolism is the same. Here was a guy who was doing it, someone who was receiving a lot of recognition for his work, and he was telling us all how the hoss ate the apple, which may be an expression as old as the use of the typewriter. Especially if you’re from East Texas. 
I’m going to be one of the first to say if you’re a new writer, and an older, experienced writer has something to say, you ought to shut the hell up and listen. You can learn a lot that way. I know I did. I was able to avoid a lot of pitfalls just from the business angle, let alone from the writing angle itself. I read what experienced writers had to say. I listened when they spoke. I knew there was much to be learned about the craft and the business. In some cases I wish I had listened more closely. 
But I was talking about this gray beard who was a black beard, who was sitting down at the end of the table, and someone mentioned word processors, and this guy, acquiring an air of superiority, lifted his nose so high I though he was pointing at something on the ceiling with it. He said the typewriter was the best way to work, because the word processor was just one more barrier between the writer and the page. 
Keep in mind I had heard this from a number of writers who wrote longhand, and now I was hearing it about the typewriter. I’m sure that after the invention of writing, which may have been lines drawn in the dirt with a stick, someone got all pissy when a young turk started scribbling his musings, pictographs if you will, on cave walls with charcoal and paints made from plants and animals, or whatever they made it from. And then as that guy aged, the one who wrote on the wall, I bet he became indignant when someone chiseled something in rock, or wrote in wax, or on papyrus…Well, you get the idea. 
So when this gray beard who was a black beard said that about typewriters, I let out with a whoop. I couldn’t contain myself. I said something unintentionally disrespectful, like, “That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” 
I can turn rowdy. 
The gray beard who was a black beard just looked at me. 
I said something along these lines. “A page is a page, if it’s a piece of paper with handwriting on it or a piece of paper pulled from a typewriter, or a screen that represents a page. It’s a page. You either have the ability to create, or you don’t. How you go about it is irrelevant.” 
The gray beard who was a black beard looked at me as if I had gone to the Vatican, got a front row seat to see the Pope, then cut a big, wet fart and yelled out, “Catch that in your big ole hat, Pope.” 
Others at the table turned to look at me. A couple of them, of course, thought who is this young upstart criticizing the voice of God? I was in my thirties then, and I suppose this guy was closer to fifty, so maybe it came across as disrespectful. But hell, I was always older than my age except when it came to fart and dick jokes. 
Anyway, the air was as thick as lies at the White House for a moment, and then a couple of folks at the table snickered. Probably owners of word processors. 
The gray beard who was a black beard smiled like he had inadvertently shit his pants, got up and left the table. He had been called on his bullshit, and he knew it. 
Might I add again, at the time of this event I was a user of the typewriter–having graduated from the pad and pen in the early seventies–and had no intention of changing my method of writing. It wasn’t this asshole’s use of the typewriter that irked me, it was his arrogance and narrow-minded stupidity. 
What I knew from what this guy said–and now we pause for a little shade tree psychiatry–was that he preferred to work that way and thought of himself as so important that for anyone to consider working in a different way was heresy, the equal of asking the Pope to catch that fart in his hat. 
He was also saying something else. I’m a dinosaur and I know it and I don’t want to change because I can’t change, and the mysteries of the word processor scare me. My world is changing. Once I was the cutting edge, and now, maybe I’m as dull as a plastic butter knife and my work is growing stale and I might as well be sticking my finger up my ass and writing my stories in shit, which is what they are becoming because I can’t embrace the future. 
Hell, we all think that from time to time. But this writer wasn’t being honest with himself, and he was trying to punish technology for his shortcomings–perhaps it could use some punishment, but the thing is, change itself is inevitable. It sucks sometimes. I know. I’ve wrestled manfully in my time with TV channel changers, microwaves, digital watches, cell phones, video players, DVD players, cassette tape players, and CD players, and that fucked up Fox News with not only its techno-graphics but bullshit much worse than the myth of the typewriter. And just to show I’m still behind the curve, that goddamn crawl line at the bottom of all the news channels makes me want to scream; reading it and watching the news too is a little too multi-task for me. So note, you’re not getting this diatribe from a techno nut. 
# 
All right. Jump forward a few years and I’m still using the typewriter, but the word processor is more common, and a lot of writers I know say it’s the way to go. Some of them former anti-technocrats, who have now seen the light and have done gone on to testify to their brothers and sisters with an enthusiasm that borders on the embarrassing, are pushing me to switch. 
They’re saying: “It’s easier, Lansdale.” 
“You’re behind the curve.” 
“You can write dick jokes faster with easier correction.” 
Now I’m listening. Considering. 
I finally broke down. I bought a computer. It stayed in the box for about a year as I continued to write on an IBM SELECTRIC. Part of the reason for this was the fact that I had a novel in motion, and had to finish it on the typewriter. Part of it was I had other contracts set and I didn’t want to pause to learn how to use the machine, because that was valuable writing time lost. But the big reason was that big ole box with the magical machine in it scared me to death. 
The thought of a machine that had a kind of brain was, well, creepy. I had grown up on science fiction after all, and computers could turn on you. I’d seen it in the movies, read it in books. And here was one in my home; its brain was great though its size was small. My brain was small and not so great, and on top of that, I was nervous. 
Finally, with the help of my wife and a friend of ours, I got it put together and learned the program. I promptly erased everything I had written, and I did this more than once. I cursed. I screamed. I threatened to go back to the typewriter. I threatened to inhabit a cave, live off locusts and honey, shit behind a bush and wipe my ass on leaves. I had had enough of the modern world. 
But then I remembered the gray beard who was a black beard. I thought, well, I’m not one who is telling folks that word processors are evil, but I sure like that typewriter, and maybe that’s what I should be doing. On the other hand, the world is moving on and I could save a lot of paper and not have to take out the trash so often and I really didn’t like that know-it-all-son-of-a-bitch, so, let’s reconsider. 
I hung in. I was beginning to like the idea of not using white out or white out strips, or replacing ribbons or knocking keys off the typewriter from hitting them too hard, or wearing out the balls of type on the IBM from machine gun typing. I was beginning to like being able to spell correctly words quickly and easily (which is not to say I don’t still screw up, but nowhere as often, and I’ve actually become a better speller by constantly being made aware of my shortcomings), and I loved being able to rewrite swiftly without having to recopy the entire page. 
I found that instead of making my work better by constant recopying on the typewriter, I had in fact been going into a zone that was less observant and less spontaneous. I was trying so desperately not to make a typo, or other mistakes I would have to correct by recopying the entire page, I was in fact restricting my creativity and spontaneity because my mind wasn’t as free. And leaving the typewriter behind meant there was no more of that damn carbon paper or getting that carbon shit all over my fingers when I pulled the carbon free from the typewriter roller. 
I missed hitting the lever that pulled the carriage back, or hitting the button on the IBM that made it jump back, but on the whole, not a whole lot to miss, really. 
Fact is, more I think about it, there’s so much about the typewriter not worth missing I could probably make a list a foot long, and print it out on my speed printer faster than a jackrabbit fucks. 
# 
So, I’m saying the word processor may not be for everyone. The typewriter, if you can still find them, might be your tool. And all the old farts who come from my generation or generations before, can certainly continue to work on their outdated machines if they want. It’s a choice. 
But as for another barrier between the writer and the page, kiss my highly attractive, rosy red ass. 
# 
Not long ago I went on a trip with my family to a Caribbean island, and though I dislike working when I travel, I decided since I’m not that fond of islands and sand and sea after more than a couple of days, it would be a great time just to relax and read, and I had a novel to do, so maybe I could get that started. 
I didn’t own a laptop, just a desk model word processor. I decided I would purchase a typewriter with some computer functions and take it with me. When I cranked the machine out, I had a feeling of nostalgia. It wasn’t a pure typewriter, but it was close to it and it had the same kind of keys, and those kind of keys, I discovered as I sat down to write, were hard to push into position because the keyboard required a heavier touch. 
You had to really press those mothers, and the machine seemed to move like a sloth on anti-depressants. Within five minutes I was nervous, and within fifteen I was hysterical. 
I put the machine away, and except for the half a page I wrote, which became the beginning of Rumble Tumble, I was through with the typewriter. Forever. That damn trip back in time had nearly caused me a nervous breakdown. 
I still feel warm and nostalgic about typewriters. I like seeing them; it’s like seeing some old book you loved. But like some of those books you read as a kid, when you re-read them you wish you hadn’t. They were best left to the memory. 
For me, that’s the case with the typewriter. The world has moved on, and it won’t be passing that way again. 
For writing, the most important thing is passion. A love for what you do. A desire to create something with all of your enthusiasm and as much attention to your craft as you can muster. 
The method of execution be damned. The secret is the human mind, not the device that allows the story to be recorded. 
Besides, another twenty years, and all those users of typewriters will be dead, and they won’t be making any more of them, the typewriters or the users. And you know what? There will come a time when the word processor will be dated, and there will be new old farts saying how that new-fangled mind reading printing device is just one more barrier between you and the page.