Writing on Real Paper with White-Out

My love affair with a typewriter that spoke to me. Or maybe for me.

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My Royal Alpha 2015, still going strong. (Author’s photo)

I would have preferred an IBM Selectric II but that was the Cadillac of electronic typewriters and way out of my price range. I bought this Royal Alpha 2014 in the early 1980s with freelance earnings, which meant I could write part of it off of my income taxes. It was around $300, which was a small fortune back in the ‘80s, but it was worth it for the feeling of legitimacy alone.

It turned out to be the best gift I could have given myself. I loved it and it loved me. It purred and hummed and when I struck those beautiful keys, it spoke my language. It seemed to know before I did what I wanted to say. It forgave me my mistakes by offering a key that would reverse itself and strike out that error with a layer of white chalk that would exactly cover the offending letters.

I don’t remember what I was using before I bought my Royal but I do remember this typewriter was many steps up from whatever it was. I loved it. We spent many gloriously productive hours together. But when dedicated word processors came along, I set it aside for what I see now was a decidedly inferior writing machine. Looking back, most of the writing I was happiest with happened when my Royal and I were together.

I started three novels on my Royal. One of the short stories I wrote on her went into an anthology and was nominated for a Pushcart. We wrote the only poetry I ever showed to anyone. My most creative spurts came while I was sitting alone with my Royal. I know that now.

From the word processor I moved to a real computer, right after the miracle that was Windows appeared on the scene. I paid for it with grant money I received to write a novel that I never finished. I blame it on that computer. The learning curve was fierce. The distractions were many (I had Prodigy and could talk to people!). It just wasn’t the right tool for long term writing. Not for me. It wasn’t just me and my writing machine anymore, it was me and the whole world out there. There were too many people in the room. My office became a parlor. My Royal was on a shelf, shut up in her case. I’m guessing she was fuming.

I could write my columns and articles on my computer, no sweat. I had a printer. It made an awful racket and when it was done I had to tear off the perforated edges to make it look like clean copy, but it was huge and had a bearing that shouted ‘professional’.

I was writing for newspapers and magazines and getting it done, but reams of pages of fiction and creative writing, my heart’s work, languished in folders tucked deep into boxes pushed far inside a closet. They were projects from my Royal days, and to this day most of them are still languishing, still unfinished, still waiting for the day I’ll bring them back to life.

I’ve tried typing some of them into my laptop but we’re not there yet. They haven’t translated well. The truth is, I’ve grown as a writer — as most of us do over time. If I’m going to be honest, those days when I wrote on my Royal were my novice days. The few stories I wrote that got some attention were the exceptions and not the norms.

The bones are still good in those stories but the writing is not. Whatever magic I found with my Royal wafted away over the years and I’m left with realities I don’t want to face: Are those chapters, those stories really worth the effort to save them? Why am I keeping them around?

I’ve been thinking about that during these pandemic months when staying at home is the best medicine, going through them again, looking at them with older, more critical eyes. I dreaded doing it, knowing how tough I am now about my own writing, and I did, in fact, make some hard decisions.

Of the three unfinished novels, the first one, the best and most ambitious, is a goner. I’ll never finish it. It’s a historical novel and I spent the better part of two years researching it. I traveled to the part of the state where the events took place, spoke with people who were children when it happened and remembered only a little by then, but they were the only witnesses left and I cherished their input. I spent many days poring over witness accounts and newspaper articles housed in the university library. I bought a dozen or more books recounting the story from different points of view and read them all, highlighting and marking off what I thought would be relevant to my story. I sent off the first chapters to the state and received a grant large enough to pay for all of that and complete it.

After another year or more I hit a wall.

As with many would-be writers of historical novels, the research becomes far more satisfying and enjoyable than the actual writing of the story. After so much information gathers in our heads we lose our way. The event seems far too important for our measly input. But there was another factor for me: I was writing the story of my own family. They lived through it and felt the repercussions far beyond the end of it. I felt I had to honor them, but there were no heroes in this story. It would have been better, I decided, if my kin hadn’t been hovering over me as I turned their lives into fiction.

I’m sorry I didn’t have the strength or the gumption to finish it. It’ll always be my favorite book, filled with characters who came to life in so many marvelous ways, only to be diminished by my inability to explain their stories well enough.

The other two novels might still have a chance, if I can only live long enough to give them the effort they deserve. They’re lighter and funnier and I love everyone in them. I know those people and their backgrounds and they didn’t require that much research. I made them up. They’ll do what I want them to do and I feel great about that. Now to just get to work.

But I have my Royal to thank for waking them all up and helping me find them. I miss those days and the sheer joy of discovery. So the other day I dragged the Royal out of storage, just to look at it again, never dreaming it would still work, that the ribbon would still press words on the paper, that the white-out ribbon would still erase my mistakes — but it did.

I thought I would write this piece on my Royal and then retype it on my laptop. I love the feel of the keys, the sound they make as I strike them, the look of the Courier 12 characters on the paper, the fact that I have to actually push the lever to take me to the next line…

But alas, dear Royal, our time has passed.

I type lightning-fast on my laptop. I can correct my mistakes almost without thinking about it. It’s as if my brain says, “No, that’s not right”, even before I see it, and tells my fingers to backspace or delete without even slowing me down. I can type while looking out the window or pretending to listen to my husband. My typing machine knows what I’m trying to do and it does it. If I mess up, it’s no big deal.

I’m sorry, Royal. You would be a novelty now and I know you wouldn’t like that. You’re meant to be a workhorse, not a toy. I’m looking for a new home for you. You won’t go to just anyone. They’ll need to know what you can do, what you’ve done for me, and they’ll have to prove to me you’ll have a good home. I might even ask for references.

So we’re good. Right?

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