Just His Type: A Love Letter to a Typewriter — How an IBM Selectric and a Summer School Class Sparked a Lifelong Affair with the Keyboard
In the mechanical world, few machines have ever been imbued with the word “sexy” quite like the Olivetti Valentine typewriter, designed by the Italian architect Ettore Sottsass. Introduced in 1969, the Valentine’s vibrant “passion red” casing and sleek modern design made it an icon of industrial art and cultural rebellion. Though typewriters hardly ever conjure images of sensuality, the Valentine’s allure lies not just in function but in form—a bold statement against the dull monotony of office life. Sottsass himself insisted the Valentine was made “for any place except the office,” a companion for poets on lazy Sunday afternoons rather than a tool for dreary clerical work.
Yet, if I were to write a love letter to a typewriter, my affection wouldn’t fall upon the Valentine. As charismatic as it was, my heart belongs to a more humble and far less glamorous machine—the IBM Selectric. It was the Selectric that first taught me to dance with letters, that summer when my fingertips learned the rhythm of the keyboard for the very first time.
That summer took place after my freshman year of high school. I signed up for a summer typing course—a concept that might seem quaint today, when typing is nearly an unconscious skill. But back then, it was a precious and sought-after ability. In a classroom filled with 12 wide-eyed teenagers, we sat before rows of IBM Selectric electric typewriters, each machine a technological marvel. With over 2,800 parts and a revolutionary spherical typing element, the Selectric represented the cutting edge of office machinery. It looked like something from the future—a far cry from the clunky, mechanical typewriters I’d seen in old movies.
Our teacher, Mr. Teitgen, a bespectacled man with a thick beard and palpable enthusiasm, introduced us breathlessly to this marvel. “This machine is faster than any human can type,” he said, “capable of 15 characters per second.” The news was both thrilling and terrifying. Could I really keep up with such a device?
I stared down at the keyboard in front of me. The familiar alphabet layout of A-B-C-D-E-F-G was gone, replaced by a seemingly chaotic jumble of letters. It looked as though someone had taken the alphabet, tossed it into a box, shook it vigorously, and dumped it onto the keyboard in mockery. The word “QWERTY” sounded like nonsense—a made-up term Mr. Teitgen insisted was the official name of the keyboard layout, deriving from the first six letters of the second row: Q, W, E, R, T, and Y.
Only later did I learn the fascinating history behind this arrangement. In the late 19th century, early mechanical typewriters suffered from frequent jams when commonly used letters were placed too closely together. The QWERTY layout was designed to slow typists down just enough to prevent these jams by spacing out frequently paired letters. It was an ingenious workaround that became the universal standard, persisting long after the mechanical issues it was designed to solve became obsolete.
Starting to type was a humbling experience. My fingers fumbled, hitting wrong keys, and I struggled to even spell my own name correctly. Mr. Teitgen encouraged us to practice using the phrase: “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country,” a classic typing exercise dating back to the early 1900s. As I laboriously pecked out words, I was painfully aware of the machine’s incredible potential—it could produce up to 186 words per minute, a speed I could only dream of matching.
The IBM Selectric’s success was no accident. It redefined the typewriter industry when it launched in 1961, replacing clunky mechanical arms with a rotating spherical type element that could quickly change fonts and deliver precise impressions. Throughout the 1970s, IBM dominated the electric typewriter market, with the Selectric appearing on the desks of most offices worldwide. Only the rise of personal computers in the 1980s brought its reign to an end.
For me, this summer typing class was more than just a skill-building exercise—it was the beginning of a lifelong relationship. In an era before computers, phones, and tablets, mastering the keyboard was a gateway to the world. Each keystroke was a brushstroke on a blank canvas, a means of bringing thoughts, stories, and ideas to life. Learning to type wasn’t just about muscle memory; it was about cultivating patience, discipline, and the joy of creation.
Typewriters also played a significant role in cultural and social shifts throughout the 20th century. They were among the earliest tools that allowed women to enter the workforce en masse, changing gender roles and economic dynamics. Writers, journalists, and poets around the world used these machines to craft works that shaped public discourse and artistic expression. Literary giants such as George Orwell, Virginia Woolf, and Raymond Chandler all depended on typewriters to translate their thoughts into text.
Although digital technology now dominates our writing lives, the tactile experience of typing on a mechanical keyboard remains deeply cherished. The satisfying clack of keys, the rhythmic motion of fingers pressing letters, and even the faint scent of ink and metal evoke a nostalgia for a time when writing was an act of devotion and craftsmanship. Many modern writers and collectors still keep vintage typewriters on their desks, seeking the focus and inspiration those machines can uniquely provide.
My own journey with typing mirrors that of countless others. A chance summer course, an unremarkable machine, and a beginner’s determination ignited a passion that shaped my career and identity. Typing taught me how to translate thoughts into words with speed and precision, and how to persevere through frustration to mastery. That experience instilled in me a respect for time and effort—a lesson far beyond the mechanics of the keyboard.
Even now, I remember the IBM Selectric and that summer with fondness. Despite all the technological advances since, no touchscreen or voice recognition software can replicate the intimacy and satisfaction of the typewriter experience. The Selectric was not just a machine; it was a symbol of an era, a tool that connected human creativity with mechanical innovation.
Writing a love letter to a typewriter is, in many ways, a tribute to the summer that taught me to dance with letters, to the endless hours of practice, and to the machine that made it all possible. It is a celebration of all those who find joy in the written word, and a reminder that no matter how fast technology moves forward, the bond between writer and keyboard endures.