When I was eleven, I taught myself to type. On a typewriter.
Despite the fact that my family’s first computer was still a few years away, typing had become a skill that I needed rather imperatively. I had blossomed into a self-proclaimed writer and was in the habit of churning out voluminous stacks of handwritten stories—all thinly-veiled Anne of Green Gables imitations—that I felt certain were of impressive quality. In fact, to my mind, getting my stories in the hands of a publisher was the only thing that stood between me and literary fame. Unfortunately, all of the publishing companies listed in How to Get Published If You’re a Kid required that manuscript submissions be typed.
And so I taught myself to type, very slowly. For weeks, I randomly pecked the keys in an abrupt, staccato fashion. I searched repeatedly for the letter “M” and I struggled to make the keys produce a question mark. And then one day, something magical transpired. I didn’t have to think about which keys were which or which fingers were used to press them. Somehow, my fingers just knew.
Once I learned to type, I trumped myself by learning to type fast. The words—the flow—the tidal wave of thoughts—everything came at a pace too rapid to risk a leisurely typing style. If ideas were coming quickly, I had to be ready to get them all down. And so my fingers learned to fly.
Shortly after I learned to type fast, I went along on a field trip to visit the local bank. Our gracious bank lady tour guide patiently answered all of our bank-related questions (“So, how much money do you keep in your vault, anyway?”) and then guided us through the bank’s offices and meeting rooms. One room had a typewriter at a desk, with a sheet of paper ready to go.
“If you children would like to type your names on the typewriter, please feel free,” said the bank lady. I waited my turn behind a couple of boys who spent several ponderous moments locating the appropriate keys with which to type their names, and when they were finished, I flaunted over and typed my name with a flourish.
“My, my,” said the bank lady, who—bless her heart—possessed the knack of saying the right thing at the right time to ego-driven eleven-year-olds. “Someone is certainly a fast typist!”
I smiled. Looking back, I imagine the smile was somewhat smug.
But I was a fast typist, and I still am. It still exhilarates me when my fingers are finished typing and my brain is still trying to process what I’ve just written. For me, typing has become a form of therapy. Busy, active fingers release the stress and anxieties that build up over time, leaving a strange feeling of relaxation borne of the quiet solitude in which the only sounds are the obedient clicks of the keys in response to the firm touch of my fingers. And when I’m finished, there is something. An essay, an article, a letter, a grocery list. Maybe nothing more than a few lines. The results are secondary to the peacefulness that resounds from typing, from thinking, from pondering.
The “pre-computer days” undoubtedly had their merits, but a generation of typists also has value. Today’s techno-savvy children have an outlet to record thoughts and ideas without the tediousness of writing with pencil and paper. They don’t have to think about which keys are which; they don’t have to struggle to find ‘M’ on the keyboard, and they don’t have to wonder which finger to use to press it. Like my eleven-year-old self, they will marvel at the way their fingers just know.