The first time I used a typewriter was in the loft of my father's lake house. I was 11. The big, black, heavy Remington was left by the previous owners. The other kids played with the Game Cube, while I typed on the floor next to them. I'm not sure what I wrote on it, but I remember the clack of the keys, the tactility and its weight. I never had the chance to change the ribbon before my mom got rid of it.
It took me 16 years to use a typewriter again. The year was 2019. I was 27 and facing the biggest trial of my life—my on-again-off-again boyfriend had just died.
My instinct told me to journal, heavily, but my hand couldn't keep up. I had a lot to say and the cramps were vicious. I was still working. I had a month and a half left on a show called City on a Hill. Being an Executive Assistant to Producer's in the film business for two and a half years kept me glued to my devices. It was part of the job description, My eyes were always waiting for the bright pixels to illuminate with a text, a phone call, or an urgent matter I needed to handle.
During my downtime, I wanted to stay as far away from a screen as I could. I also wanted to have my words on a page that I could hold, but I lacked a printer and the interest in buying one. I was desperate to for a simpler way of life. The answer was analog.
My then-new partner, Marc, lent me his to use while he went to Boston for the weekend to shoot exterior scenes for City on a Hill. I wasn't asked to go by my bosses. I was told I wasn't needed (that was a first). Instead, I was left behind in New York to await the arrival of my late-boyfriend's family as they were coming to clean out his apartment.
Selfishly, I had wanted to escape facing this. It would be easier to avoid watching the apartment unravel, as it grew unrecognizable and eventually emptied. The walls were stripped. The furniture was gone. All that remained were boxes stacked against a wall that needed to placed in the moving pod. I went over several times during the course of the weekend, but in between visits I retreated to my backyard to type.
Under the late spring sun I wrote. I had ten blank pages of 8" x 11" paper on my patio table. I wrote until the typewriter rang, prompting me to push the carriage return and start a new line. I repeated this over and over. I wrote so much I ran out of paper. I filled them all, leaving minimal margins. Going to the store to buy more was out of the question. I didn't feel like interacting with others. I was in an insular place. Instead, I went inside, dug through my desk drawers and found another medium— a pile of blank 3x5" index cards.
The thick card stock didn't wrap as nicely over the roller, but the rubber stoppers held it in place so I could type. That is the beauty of the typewriter. The ability to throw pretty much anything through it and get unique stamped letters written across the surface. I didn't mind making mistakes. When I did, I backspaced and put an 'X' (or series of) through the error. Usually, my perfectionism would be overwhelmed by messing up, but I stopped sweating the little things.
The 3x5" index cards gave me boundaries. How much feeling could I capture within the allotted space? I rolled one card through, then another, and another until I had a stack. Traumas from the previous year of my life flowed through me. I remembered the quiet, sweet, small moments that were too infrequent, I wrote those down too. In each attempt, I avoided unnecessary filler words and avoided repetitive lamentations like I'm so sad. I wielded the words with force. I wanted each memory to hit the reader as hard as they hit me.
As soon as my job finished, I quit my career and became a full-time griever. I promised myself I would not return to the film business until I held a position in the writer's room. I would no longer plan wrap parties, arrange the crew gifts, casting, above-the-line schedules, travel, doctors appointments or manage general mishaps. I refused. I couldn't go back to the way things were. I wasn't a normal person. I couldn't pretend anymore either.
Instead I would live my life with intention, based off feeling, and only make money doing what I love... writing. For the next year and a half I dedicated myself to typing every feeling I had. I vowed to write every memory that crossed my mind onto those keys.
I knew I had to harness my energy, practice my craft and capture this once-in-a-lifetime experience; the death of a lover, the end of a complicated relationship; a relationship I devoted my whole being to, one I believed in and invested in until it ultimately consumed me. The typewriter became my outlet that helped facilitate my grief. It grounded me, focused my feelings and offered me sanctuary.
Grief is pure agony. I prayed for the day when I would stop crying, when I would wake up with a smile instead of a frown. Being miserable everyday was suffocating. Being triggered by inanimate objects felt like traversing a field full of landmines. I longed for the feeling of peace. Someday I told myself I will look back and will say wow, I did that and now I'm here. This pursuit led me to sit in front of the keys everyday, knowing that if I was consistent enough my writing practice could be measured, that I could write my way out of this hole.
The meditative cadence of the keys put me in a trance. I felt their strong vibration as I typed and typed and typed. I cried heavy tears over the black glass keys. Crumpled up, wet tissues covered the floor around where I wrote. Usually I resorted to wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. While everyone else was at work, I was in my apartment with a desperate urgency to create a tangible record of everything; of my emotions, of the memories, of the pain— to preserve it all forever. I wasn't willing to forget the good, the bad or the ugly. I needed to move through it. To get it out of my system.
The typewriter traveled everywhere with me. It came with me on planes (yes, TSA pulled it aside every single time to inspect this suspicious relic—be careful it's vintage I would say when they slowly pulled on the zipper wrapped around the Italian leather case), I packed it in my car, brought it outside, I wrote in the backseat of cars, I even took it on the subway into Washington Square Park to write impromptu letters for people (my way of connecting with others and to earn some money from my craft).
Four years later, I have entered the phase of grief I yearned for; an era of balance and reflection where the grief no longer stifles me. Despite routinely being questioned by family members and others, When are you going to get a job? I was stubborn enough to believe in what I was doing. Writing healed me. I showed up to the typewriter each day. I dove deep into my grief. I didn't turn away, I didn't hide, even when the memories were hard. I looked at everything that happened and faced it head on. This transition changed my whole life.
Since May 2019 I have filled seven hand-written journals. I wrote an hour-long original TV spec script. I rolled enough paper through the typewriter to fill four 1" binders with back to back pages. When I take out the binders and read through my experience I am in awe of what I have accomplished. My discipline has paid off. I can now physically chart my feelings and writing from the very beginning.
Over that June weekend when I first began writing, I knew I was writing a book. Though, at the time I had no idea how to do that. I've since learned (shout out to Sarah Lawrence writing workshops) and I'm on the home stretch. I have synthesized my raw emotions into a memoir that explores how it is to be in a relationship with someone who struggled with addiction, how it was to lose that person to an overdose and how I moved forward as I maneuvered grief, a new relationship alongside my trauma and PTSD. I revisited my grief diary throughout the process— I selected bits from the index cards, the typed pages and the handwritten journal to provide depth, vulnerability and honesty. Everything I felt tangible, waiting for me to dive into the experience once again.
As for the typewriter, it still rests on a table in my living room. There is always a piece of paper rolled in and ready to go. I'm lucky now if I fill one page in a week. The digital world called me back sometime ago. I'm a productive member of society again— I have a job. Plus, writing a book on a typewriter isn't so smart... I rely heavily on Microsoft Word for that. Copy/paste is invaluable. Holla at the Brooklyn Public Library and to my dad for having a printer.
Still, every time I stand before the keys I feel gratitude. The keys still bring a lightness to my soul, the sound of the hammers stamping will always be one of my favorites. I followed my gut and grieved in the way I needed. Sometimes we are the only ones who truly know what we need. While we may want someone else to provide the answer, we are the only ones who have it. Stay true to yourself, even if it's hard and especially when the judgements from others make you feel like you're wrong. You're not. I promise.
Thank you to all of the people who supported me over these last four years. Special thanks to Marc Charbonneau for allowing his typewriter be my gateway. To Jacqueline Suskin for gifting me my first typewriter, lugging it with her on a plane all the way from LA, and lastly to Gramercy Typewriter Co. for selling me the Olivetti Lettera 32, and for being the best resource and servicer to these machines.
I have watched you grow from a teenager when swimming was your passion and as you soaked up the lake Sacandaga sun while you read endlessly. Thank you for sharing and showing the rest of us what it takes to work through some of the worst moments of our lives.
Ericka
im glad you were able to take the typewriter everywhere you went and looks like it worked out in many ways for you
- Jason