I remain true to my type

“That’s not writing, that’s typing.” So said Truman Capote disdainfully a half-century ago about the newly published Jack Kerouac tome -- which became a sort of bible for beatniks and beatnik wannabes for years -- On the Road.

I didn’t agree with Capote back then. but. I now find myself a little more in agreement with his sentiment about an overrated, immature and tiresome read.

In a bizarre way, if different characters had been pivotal to the tale, the ghastly Capote epic In Cold Blood could be seen as a perverse ultimate denouement of On the Road.

But, that’s not important to this brief tale.

Typing is important to this tale.

Sitting on a shelf in my garage is a 1930 vintage Remington typewriter (just like the one pictured). It’s a portable, and it still actually works. I should get it appraised at some point and sell it on eBay.

The machine originally belonged to my grandfather and got passed on to my mother. I was fascinated by its properties at a very early age and began to peck out my name and other little writings in both black and red ink. It was so cool. While my printing and early cursive writing may have been sloppy and messy (me being a boy and all), my typing looked highly professional. I became a convert to the keyboard, even though the ‘qwerty’ premise escaped me in the early days.

Time out for whimsical anecdote:

HR person is interviewing young lady for a vacant clerical position.

“So, Miss Jones, what is your typing speed? A hundred words a minute?”
“No, less than that.”
“Fifty words a minute?”
“No – uh – less than that?”
“Surely it’s more than 30 words a minute!”
“Well – not really.”
“So, you’re telling me that you’re just a hunt-and-pecker.”
“I certainly am not! I already have a boyfriend. I just need a job.”

Now, back to the premise of this thesis. When I was in high school, and with a spare block to fill, I decided to take a typing class, as I think I’ve mentioned before. I did lousy at it, but I did like the class ratio of about 10 females to one male. Two other guys and I hate a great social time therein. My WPM never got very high, but I did actually learn to touch-type and little did I know that I would spend the majority of my life using this skill. Don’t use algebra or trig much, but that old filler typing class proved invaluable.

A few years ago I interviewed fine Canadian novelist Jack Hodgins. I asked him about the physical process of his writing. Yellow legal pad and lots of pens, he told me. I found that unfathomable. I have had such a long relationship with the keyboard that I virtually cannot compose by writing longhand. Jack, on the other hand, can only do his task in the traditional manner. Told me he never learned to type and was highly intimidated by keyboards, both on a typewriter and especially on a computer.

That means that all his writings must then be transcribed into typed submissions before they can be put onto galleys. He would have to pay for that. I wanted to tell him that such a process was highly inefficient, but I refrained due to the realization that he was widely-published, whereas I wasn’t published at all, other than on newsprint. He had stuff between actual hard covers.

A few weeks ago when I had my health interlude I couldn’t type with my left hand. I felt metaphorically, or digitally castrated. It was extremely intimidating and I wondered what it would be like to be so impaired indefinitely. It was a dreadful thought.

Fortunately, it all came back in a day or so, but it certainly resulted in a ‘wide-awake moment’ about the things we have that are essential to who we are.

Typing is partially who I am.