In the spring of 2012 I bought a typewriter from a junk shop. A grey, square Silver-Reed in a black plastic case with bold office vibes and not a hint of romance. And I loved her.
I had recently moved to a crumbling, top floor, rented flat in the city with no furniture, a bin bag of clothes, two carrier bags of books and a backpack of sentimental treasures that I wouldn’t leave behind. I was depleted but free to do as I pleased.
She was in the window of a junk shop around the corner. I paid £30 for her and she was stiff, dusty, grazed on the corners and needed some care. We were a match. I bought her a new ribbon and wiped the dirt and grime from her as best I could. I got my hair cut and bought a small table and chair. We sat for a while. Before I even had a bed to sleep in, I had a typewriter to dream on.
I typed out notes and quotes on cheap paper and glued them into my journals. We dallied with tissue paper and red highlights. I tried writing letters but nobody I knew would appreciate the beauty of her rough type or the effort made in forming words with those sticky keys, so I kept them for myself. I felt bad for my neighbour downstairs who could hear me banging out those letters with a ding and a swish at the end of every line.
As I steadied myself in my new place, I bought a sofa in turquoise and a bed to sleep in and the table filled with art supplies and sketchbooks. The typewriter, whisked away one day from inky splashes, found a place on a corner shelf and stayed. I admired her from my spot on the sofa and despite her ailing mechanisms and my lack of skill, romanticised our writerly future.
Ten years later and on a wander through Instagram’s pushy little algorithm I’m recommended The Summer Writing Sanctuary with Beth Kempton. My decision to sign up was simple, it just felt like a comforting thing to do while I was wading through a sticky time. Of course I had no idea what the event would lead to but the ripples were strong and have been widening ever since.
Beth’s generosity of spirit and the resources in the Writing Sanctuary were unlike anything I’d found before or since. I listened and I learned and I wrote deeply and it was private and sometimes heartbreaking. But the part I loved the most was Daily Sparks. Poetry!
In school, English was the only class I wanted to go to. Looking back, between the Shakespeare, the novels and the writing exercises, I don’t recall a single poem. I found my way to poets later, when I was blogging in the 2000s, Emily Dickinson was quoted everywhere.
The Daily Sparks became my favourite part of the Writing Sanctuaries that followed. Thanks to Beth the ripples kept widening.
In 2024, scrolling the endless moving pictures, I saw a young woman sitting in a park at a typewriter. She was taking requests from strangers, personal thoughts and experiences were laid out with their hearts and she responded with beautiful words. The typewriter poet crafted gorgeous poems on the spot, with a rhythm and gentleness that engaged my sensitive soul. Every video she shared of poems that moved people to laughter or tears felt like a gift. A gift to them and to me who could witness these moments and these words.
Now I read her Substack and listen to her podcast and she shares so much, so freely and I’m learning. I’m learning how to read poetry and how to craft with my own words. And the ripples are widening.
The writing community is generous in ways that astound me and now here I am, swimming in thoughtful words, considered recommendations and gentle encouragement. I read essays, poetry and incredible prose every day and it is offered freely and with kindness. I am handed the wisdom of (often) women who have forged a new path and now pass on their knowledge. And I am grateful. I want to contribute. I want to be generous too.
And yes, I long to be the typewriter poet in the park, making memories for strangers who take home a piece of poetry on handmade paper. Yes I long to move others with my words and to know that they help or matter. No I don’t want to do it for money or fame but because this is how I connect with the world around me. I’m hopeless at small talk and conversation but tell me about your favourite word and how it’s juicy in your mouth and that lyric from your favourite song or the book you read that made you cry.
And here I am sounding like the typewriter poet is in my head. And I’m too shy to tell her she’s changing the world.