The “Good Ol’ Days” of Writing Weren’t All that Wonderful
Sam Venable
Department of Irony
Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. The quick brown fox jumped over…”
Oops, pardon me. I didn’t realize you were standing there. As my wife of 55 years will agree, once I begin keyboard concentration, I’m numb to 95% of distractions: dogs barking, grandkids puking, house on fire, minor stuff like that.
Nor am I alone. Just ask anyone who ever worked in a crowded newsroom with dozens of typewriters being furiously pounded five minutes before deadline. Even the occasional airborne dictionary or ashtray didn’t merit so much as a second glance — unless, perhaps, it landed directly on the paste pot atop your desk.
What I was doing at the start of this piece were finger exercises with my old Royal, a manual typewriter that’s a sure-nuff journalism antique — along with dictionaries, ashtrays and paste pots, for that matter. I just discovered it in the dark recesses of an upstairs closet the same way I make other discoveries: While looking for something else.
Until I lugged it out of hiding, I’d forgotten what a hunk of metal it is. We’re talking a full 27 pounds, 12 ounces, according to my digital fish-weighing scale. Which is roughly 27 pounds, 10 ounces heavier than the computerized messaging gizmo people wear on their wrists these days.
Typewriters like this had to be hefty to absorb a kajillion vicious finger jabs over their careers. Yes, jabs. Back in the day, there was no such thing as genteel key-tapping.
A newspaper typewriter was played with strength and emotion. It sang a deep baritone, nothing like the polite “click-clack-click” of a computer keyboard. This came with the territory because old-time newsrooms could be bawdy. Never were they confused with the front office of a mortuary.
Not that I’d go back, you understand. Today’s writing devices offer multiple advantages, not the least of which is the ability to edit on the fly. No more first drafts, second drafts, fifth drafts — which seemed like the number of retypes required for the first magazine article this Royal finally spit out for me in 1969. Things got better for my first book in 1981, but I still needed three complete, 400-plus-page re-dos. My fingers throb at the memory.
True, manual typewriters don’t need batteries or a password. They still happily perform if the electricity goes out or you’ve lost your power charger. They even boast an instant “printer.”
But unlike today’s handheld devices, they can’t warn you if storm clouds have formed three counties to the west and are headed your way. They can’t solve algebraic equations. They can’t recite the lyrics of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” instantly recall the final score of the 1976 Super Bowl, call up a picture of your long-gone high school, or send a text to your cousin in Dubuque.
They also, ugh, need regular ribbon changes. Not only were our fingertips calloused back then, they were usually ink-stained.
Vocational nostalgia’s fine. But in dang-near any line of work, the good ol’ days weren’t always what they’re cracked up to be. (Just for fun, though, I’d love to see one of my old colleagues heave his dictionary halfway across the room. What an arm that guy had!)
Sam Venable is an author, comedic entertainer, and humor columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. His latest book is “The Joke’s on YOU! (All I Did Was Clean Out My Files).” He may be reached at sam.venable@outlook.com.