This story made its way amongst the word-jugglers the other day, and I just wanted to add a few quick thoughts:
Last typist refuses to switch to laptop, gets boot from Writers Room in Greenwich Village
The ribbon has run out on the last typewriter at a Manhattan writers’ den.
Skye Ferrante has spent six years at the Writers Room in Greenwich Village, blissfully banging away on his grandmother’s 1929 Royal typewriter. – More
The thrust of the article is that the guy is put out that he’s not allowed to haul his Nana’s hammer-box into the room so he can play at being a writer for the afternoon. I don’t mean to be the cantankerous jerk, but – well, I’m going to: there may have been a time when smoking cigars and pinching strange ladies’ bottoms were also permissible behaviour in the area, that doesn’t mean it’s still done.
We also used to think it was fine to display a quart of brandy in the office, you don’t see a mini-bottle in every modern cubicle however.
I love the classic action and satisfying clatter of a typewriter as much as the next guy, but sometimes you’ve got to take a tip from garage bands and know when to practice your art in the muffling confines of your own home.