I had a similar experience but before the electric typewriter. My first was an old Imperial of my elder brothers. Oh how I envied him that and the resulting remonstrations after I'd snook onto it only made me more determined - a lesson to all those who believe that punishment is a better method for obtaining compliance than positive encouragement - it isn't!
Eventually I graduated to the electric, an Olivetti Lettera 32, which I profusely admired. Sadly, after a few years and when it was still hitched to my hip, I pawned it to a friend's father because I desperately needed, (desired is probably more correct), some money to buy my 'sweetheart' a gift for her birthday. A couple of months later when I was able, I tried to get it back but he wouldn't accept the money and refused to return it. ... There is no telling what some will do for money or the lack of compassion or caring they have.
No matter, it is some 50+ years ago now and just one of life's lessons. Indeed, I still miss the original Imperial. There was something about the physical action of shoving the platten across to the left at the end of each line to carry on down to the next. The sound and movement, clackety-clack of the mechanical keys hitting the paper and returning gave a sense of being at one with the machine, as though the two of us were equally integral to the whole experience.
Yes, the word processor on the computer is a marvel, as is electronic storage and the absence of that horrible 'white-out', inevitably necessary when proof-reading for someone who tends to engage in rapid stream of consciousness writing. Sadly, though, it's not the same. The magic is gone. Perhaps that's just my age, my weariness or my large and clumsy fingers on too small keys place too closely together, I can't say - perhaps it's just old age nostalgia.
Sorry to go on ... your post just triggered something in me and now, with all the perfidy and cruelty taking place in the World, I just write what I feel when I feel it and 'to hell with it', as is said. That's probably not appropriate and certainly runs counter to the authors I most value, such as the sparse exactitude of Hemingway; the clarity and insight of Karen Armstrong; the raw beauty of Ted Hughes poetry or the eloquent and succinct capturing of human feeling of Leonard Cohen.
... but after all, I am not one of them, nor even close to sharing their perspicuity.
