I want a typewriter.
An old, heavy, ribbon-wielding machine of metal. I want to feel bruises on my fingertips after a great writing spell pounded against smooth click-clacking keys and hear the swing of the carriage return as the paper shifts up to reveal space for yet another story to unfold.
From shabby chic interior shops to hipster-loving retail chains, my impulse has been tempted by century old antiques & jewel-tone portables. But to this day, my desk remains empty.
What I’ve come to understand is I don’t want a typewriter. I want the 1960’s manual Royal my grandmother bequeathed to me at the budding age of twelve. I loved it until college and have missed it like an old friend.