JOHN MARTIN

I first got behind a typewriter in 1973, back in Grade 10, when I made a bold move that rattled the school timetable — I took typing as an elective. Most of the other boys chose manly pursuits like woodworking or metalwork, but I decided to cross the gender divide. That’s how I found myself as the only boy in a classroom full of girls, all of us hammering away on clunky typewriters to the rhythm of classical music.

The theory was that if you could type to a beat, your fingers would find the right rhythm. The teacher chose pieces like the William Tell Overture and Flight of the Bumblebee.

When I moved on to matric college in ’74 and ’75, typing wasn’t exactly a core subject, and the skill drifted away. I didn’t need it again until 1976, when I started work as a copy boy at my local newspaper. Suddenly, there I was, staring at a typewriter again — and my fingers refused to cooperate. Before I ever had writer’s block, I had typing block.

Even now, I can’t sit at a keyboard without the William Tell Overture thundering through my head. It’s Pavlovian. The moment the music starts, my fingers spring to life.

For those who have never had to change a ribbon or write something without the letter r because that was a sticky key, typing was once a physical sport. The early typewriters were heavy metal beasts, and hitting each key was like doing finger push-ups. There was no backspace, no spellcheck and no mercy. A single typo meant starting the whole page again or soiling your work with Tippex.

Still, there’s something about that clatter — a kind of rhythm that laptops will never capture. Each keystroke felt like progress, each ding of the carriage return a tiny fanfare of achievement.

These days, I wear a Lone Ranger mask when I type, just so I’m not tempted to look down at the keys. It’s partly nostalgia, partly necessity. But it works.

Heigh-ho, Qwerty! Away!