I don’t know much about this typewriter, other than it was my grandfathers and he used it for every letter he wrote. What I can gather is that it is from the time period of 1935-1937 and it weighs about 30 lbs. I don’t know about all the settings or features and, as you can see, I haven’t even dusted it off since it became my own. There is no deleting, no spellcheck, and no going back if you make a mistake (unless you use white out, which I do not).
This piece of history is a part of my process, a part that (if I’m being honest) I don’t particularly enjoy. I, like many others, don’t revel in making mistakes. I get frustrated, get down on myself, and wonder why I even use it in the first place if it upsets me in this moment. See, if you order a leather good from me, you will receive a letter typed on this machine and more than likely, that letter will contain mistakes. Mistakes from grammar, spelling, typos, and mis-hit keystrokes. It’s not laziness that keeps me from going back and re-doing the letter, but acceptance. Mistakes are going to be made, and the acceptance of those mistakes is what keeps me moving forward and onto the next step. This practice has led me to a feeling of freedom whenever I make a mistake, and it honestly feels like a superpower to put an error-ridden letter inside of a box and ship it.
I may not know much about this dusty typewriter but what I do know is that it has character, and mistakes cause character. The reader may wonder why the hell I let the letter leave my hands with so many mistakes but in the end, all it shows is that it was written by a human (a human full of mistakes).