Why I Write With a Real Typewriter

Published October 22, 2026. Last updated November 1, 2026. By Andrew M. Tan.

AI has become part of how many of us write, and I figured this was a good time to revisit an older post about using a real typewriter. These machines still interest me (a lot). There is something oh so, satisfying about watching a thought emerge one “ka-chunk” at a time.

As some of you know, I write a lot with old typewriters. I own several vintage machines and have a good time keeping them up and running. I’ve always loved toying with the odd doodads. I can be fidgety.

An antique shop on the road to Maine

Several years ago, my wife and I took a road trip up the East Coast of the US. We planned a scenic getaway in Maine in early summer. This was before we had kids. The world was our oyster.

On the way up, we drove along narrow roadways, away from the interstates, so we could take our time and enjoy the New England landscape. We had views of the ocean and sky, with untamed woodlands along the roadside. Dotted along this route were shops that sold all manner of…junk.

I remember a tire shop that had strewn truck tires all over the front lawn. The white building was no modern establishment, a mere box with a tiled roof. The black rubber donuts wore dried mud like crackle paste, and the grass sprung from their axle hubs.

Do people actually stop at places like that to see what’s for sale? And, sell things they did, because on the front porch of this shack was a sign ‘Ice Cold Drinks for Sale’.

We drove on until we reached a bona fide antique shop with a clean front facade and a freshly paved parking lot. This was our first road trip in a long time, and we were tired.

“Let’s stretch our legs,” my wife said.

“…need to use the bathroom, too.”

The smell of an antique shop

Have you ever smelled the inside of an antique shop? Old things smell. But, sometimes, it’s sweet. This wasn’t a wooden attic or a drawer full of dirty socks. A well curated antique shop has the delectable air of a polished brass spoon that’s dipped in bitter coffee. Whatever that tastes like, this antique shop made an impression. I was hooked by the smell.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, blurry shapes came into focus: a hardwood chair, a silver candlestick, and a glass counter with vintage office paraphernalia on a pewter tray. The writing tools caught my eye. The need to use the restroom faded; I knelt to look through this window into someone else’s history.

Fountain pens, loose cuff links, and an empty ink vial with an accompanying pen stand sat behind the glass, all tarnished metal. I crept sideways to see what else was in the case. The shopkeeper stood above me, an elderly gentleman whose name I didn’t know. Neither of us spoke. The shop’s quietness felt sacred.

A museum with its wares for sale

I’m in a museum with its wares for sale.

That’s what antique shops are like. A place to visit with artifacts you can own or admire. I understand why some of my friends would find my fascination with them a little odd. I like having the time to look closely at something whose usefulness has outlasted its fashion.

The shop gave us somewhere to stretch our legs, and its quiet gave me room to think.

I’m a history buff. And, unlike a museum, you can generally go about an antique shop, pick stuff up, play with switches, push rusty buttons, and put said object down and get away with it. There are exceptions, of course. Those treasures behind the glass countertop that I’m eyeing are under the watchful eye of the shop keeper. When I spy the vintage Sterling model Smith-Corona typewriter in the corner of that glass case, I beam.

The machine looks brand new.

My first typewriter caught my attention

This Smith-Corona looked remarkably clean. Most of the typewriters I’d seen showed their age in cracked rubber rollers and corrosion around the type basket, where the typebars swing toward the paper. Through the glass, it was hard to make out the color. Brown looks awfully like black without good light.

“Do you think I can take a closer look at this?” I asked the shopkeeper, gesturing toward the writing machine.

Without a word, he smiles, slides open a door and lifts the machine onto the counter. A Smith-Corona weighs several pounds and is all metal. It had stage presence, a true writing machine. Stature. As though it dared you, ‘touch me’.

“Does it work?”

“Sure, do you want to try it?” the old man said.

“Sure,” I whispered.

At the time, I worked in a science laboratory with microscopes, diagnostic tools, and all kinds of sophisticated equipment. Even with that experience, I was cautious about trying this unfamiliar machine. When you test-drive a car, you still need to adjust the mirrors.

This typewriter had the presence of a blooming flower in a sea of weeds. I wanted to see what it could do.

The page held my attention

My iPad has plenty of ways to get my attention. Notifications arrive while I’m working, and a quick check can send me somewhere I hadn’t intended to go. Sitting with the typewriter, I could give the page my full attention.

The appeal was in the activity itself. I wanted to feel the keys move and see a sentence take shape. That was enough reason to try it.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog

I think about letters when I sit at a typewriter. A page folded into an envelope carries a little of the time someone spent writing it. I enjoy that sense of a message made by hand.

The paper in the typewriter was pure white. A blank page, and it scared me. I’ve written elsewhere about finding my way into writing when my thoughts are scattered. Here, the shopkeeper had rolled in two sheets of paper, with one behind the writing sheet as backing. I was about to put an old machine to work on ordinary computer paper.

I studied the round glass keys, trying to decide which one to press first.

This keyboard didn’t have a separate number “1” key. The lowercase letter “l” did double duty. Even that small detail made me pause and look more closely at the machine.

I typed this on the Smith-Corona: the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The type struck the paper through the ribbon, leaving black letters on white. It’s a pangram, a sentence containing every letter of the English alphabet. On this machine, each letter came out clearly.

The words felt real. I could hear the work of making them.

I wanted this typewriter.

What the typewriter was worth to me

I didn’t quite understand my compulsion to buy the typewriter. It was a Smith-Corona Sterling, a model I’d already encountered while browsing listings online. On this road trip to Maine, I wanted to take one home. This would be my first typewriter.

I tried to find a price tag. In this antique shop, everything had a small paper tag with a handwritten price on it. This particular typewriter didn’t have a price!

Nervously, I asked the shopkeeper for the price.

“A hundred and twenty,” he says.

At the time, $120 seemed fair to me, based on the listings I’d browsed. I’d hesitated to buy a typewriter online because I wanted to test an old machine first. With each swing of the typebars, my concerns eased.

I wanted it, needed it—I didn’t haggle.

My wife did.

I don’t know how she did it, or what she said. All I remember is that we walked out to the car with a new, old typewriter. I took home a Sterling Smith-Corona typewriter in functional condition for $45.

In a literal sense, by winning one jackpot (my wife), I may have won all other jackpots.

Writing becomes something I can hold

A typing machine gives me a particular kind of freedom. Every keypress takes physical work, and I can hear each letter arrive on the page. There’s no delete key to make a hesitant sentence disappear. I can cross out a mistake or start again, but the draft keeps a visible record of the work.

I recognize something similar when I paint a miniature. The brush leaves a mark I can examine, and the next decision follows from what I see. Working with a physical tool gives my attention to detail a clear purpose.

Here, I’d put a thought onto paper with ink and metal. It was a small thing, but I could hold it in my hands.

Life is a page

As we drove to Maine, our vacationland, we traveled a lonely road.

A typewriter makes me notice the time a sentence takes. The carriage moves as I work, and the page keeps the marks I’ve made. I find myself staying with an idea long enough to discover what I mean.

That’s the part I want to keep returning to. A few minutes spent making something can change the pace of my day. At the writing desk, as at the painting desk, I have something specific to attend to.

Ding!

There’s room for another line.

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If you have access to a working typewriter, try giving it ten minutes and a single page. Choose something you want to think through, then keep writing until the time is up. Pay attention to how the process feels. I’d enjoy hearing what you notice.

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