I've had a lot of questions about why I bought a vintage typewriter. I've also done a lot of self-reflection about why I wanted to buy her (yes, it's a her, and her name is Rita), why I resisted it for so long, and how freaking glad I am to have overcome that resistance.
To get there, I have to back up a bit.
This past spring, my husband, son, and I went to our local craft story after lunch one day. As I wandered the aisles, I wanted things. I wanted big cardboard letters (maybe I can spell LOVE and decorate them, I thought). I wanted to make something with my hands. I wanted to play.
But then, a voice came into my head: "What are you going to DO with those letters?"
We'd just done the whole Marie Kondo thing in our house, and it felt really good to release clutter. I wasn't too keen on adding more stuff to our lives. Then I thought, "And no one's going to want to buy those, if you were to try to sell them."
Those were the options that I presented myself with: hang my art on the walls or sell it.
I left the store empty-handed. My husband and son, not so much. Over the next few weeks, I watched them create. They started making artist trading cards, and they had so much fun with them. They were spending hours creating while I watched from the sidelines. I wanted in, but those same arguments played on repeat: if you aren't going to hang it up or sell it, what's the point?
One night, my husband and I were talking, and I told him about that internal battle I'd been having, of wanting to create but not feeling like it was worth it. I told him about my vision of decorating those letters.
"I don't know what I'll do with them once they're done."
He nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. I have those thoughts too. But I think that's sort of the point of making art. You don't need a reason."
"Yeah," I said. "I think I'm starting to grasp that idea."
Talking it through with him and getting that inner voice out into the light exposed my mindset. I was thinking only in terms of productivity. I was ignoring the innate value of play, joy, and creating.
We went back to the store. I bought paper, paint, glue, and an artist's notebook. I started to make art, on my own terms. Collage, watercolor, doodles. Not to be productive. Just because. Because colors make me happy. Because I feel grounded when I create. Because every once in a while, I make something that I'm just a little bit proud of, and surprising myself like that feels really good.
Of course, everything takes practice, including the art of because.
After a few months of integrating creativity into my life, I found myself stalking vintage typewriters on Instagram. Blue ones, like Rita, were calling my name. As I started searching for one on eBay, I could envision it becoming part of my morning practice, something that I've built over the past few years that sustains and inspires me. I could see myself typing up meaningful words and quotes and sharing those words and pictures with people who might also dig blue, vintage typewriters.
"But do I really need this?" I wondered. "Aren't there a million other things, more important things, that I could be spending my money on?"
I would find the perfect typewriter, only to get cold feet at the last minute. Over and over for weeks.
Until one day, I must've gotten tired of myself, because I saw a typewriter that looked pretty good, and clicked "Buy Now." Rita arrived a week later. As soon as I put eyes on her, I fell in love. I had no regrets. Not one. Not even a little.
Now, after about a month of living with Rita, I'm happy to report that she's a regular part of my morning practice. Most mornings, I type up words or phrases that feel important in that moment, I snap a few pictures, and I share them with the world.
Some people have asked me why I bought a typewriter, or looked at me funny when I say that I did. My ten-year-old son said, "Why did you buy a typewriter when we have computers?" Of course, a few seconds later, after watching me type and hearing that satisfying key-clacking, he said, "Can I try?"
Why did I buy Rita? Because. Because she's blue. Because of that perfectly imperfect font. Because she has told secret stories that she'll never reveal to me. Because you really have to push on those keys, and that extra effort feels like it's solidifying the words that I type into my brain. Because she brings me joy. Because no matter what kind of mood I'm in, when I look at her, I feel a little bit happier.
Last week, Rita got sick. I had changed her ribbon, and I must've pushed the wrong button somewhere, because when I typed, no letters would appear. The eBay seller was willing to take her back, but instead, I wrote to a typewriter repair shop about an hour from me. In the meantime, I managed to diagnose her online. Luckily, I was able to nurse her back to health, but when it was touch and go, I knew that no matter what happened, I was in it with her for the long haul, cost and time be damned. She's mine, and I'm hers. It's not practical, productive, or logical. It's just...because.
I write about higher education.