XIII.
OUR FRIEND, THE T.W.
In some localities of this progressive country the pen may still be mightier than the sword; but if, afar from railroad and telegraph, holed away in barbaric seclusion, there really exists a community that writes with a quill and uses elderberry ink and a sandbox, it is safe to say that this community has never been heard of – and the cause is not far to seek. Just possibly, however, it is from such a backwoods township that the busy editor receives those rare manuscripts whose chirography covers both sides of the sheet. In this case the pen is really mightier than the sword as an instrument for cutting the ground out from under the feet of aspiring genius. Just possibly, too, it was from such a place that a typewritten letter was returned to the sender with the indignant scrawl: “You needn’t bother to print my letters – I can read writin’.”
Nowadays penwork is confined largely to signing letters and other documents and indorsing checks; to use it for anything else should be named a misdemeanor in the statutes with a sliding scale of punishments to fit the gravity of the offense.
It is not to be inferred, of course, that a man will dictate his love letters to a stenographer. Here, indeed, “two’s company and three’s a crowd.” Every man should master the T.W., and when he confides his tender sentiments to paper for the eyes of the One Girl, his own fingers should manipulate the keys and the T.W., should be equipped with a tri-chrome ribbon – red and black record and purple copying. Black will answer for the more subdued expressions, red should be switched on for the warmer terms of endearment, and purple should be used for whatever might be construed as evidence in a court of law. Even billets-doux have been known to develop a commercial value.
When a serviceable typewriter may be bought for $25 what excuse has anyone for side-stepping the inventive ingenuity of the day which makes for clearness and speed? How much does Progress owe the typewriter? Who can measure the debt? How much does civilization owe the telephone, the night-letter, the fast mail and two-cent postage? Even more than to these does Progress owe to that mechanism of springs, keys and type-bars which makes plain and rapid the written thought.
In the Edwards Fiction Factory the T.W., comprises the entire “plant.” The “hands” employed for the skilled labor are his own, and fairly proficient. His own, too, is the administrative ability, modest enough in all truth yet able to guide the Factory’s destiny with a fair meed of success.
Since the T.W., is so important, Edwards believes in always keeping abreast of improvements. The best is none too good. A typed script, no less than a stereotyped idea, is damned by mediocrity. If a typewriter appears this year which is a distinct advance over last year’s machine, Edwards has it. Keeping up-to-date is usually a little expensive, but it pays.
In the early days of his writing Edwards used the old Caligraph. It was a small machine and confined itself to capital letters. Whenever he wished to indicate the proper place for a capital he did it thus: HIS NAME WAS CAESAR, AND HE LIVED IN ROME. If he lost a letter – and letters in those days were not easily replaced – he allowed the unknown quantity “X” to piece out: HIX NAME WAX CAEXAR–. In due time he came to realize the importance of neatness and traded his first Caligraph for a later model equipped with letters from both “cases.” During twenty-two years he has purchased at least twenty-five typewriters, each the last word in typewriter construction at the time it was bought. At present he has two machines, one a “shift-key” and the other with every letter and character separately represented on the key-board.
There are many makes of typewriters, and operators are of many minds regarding the “best” makes. Edwards has favored the full key-board as being less of a drain upon the attention than the “shift-key” machine. For the writer who composes upon his machine the operating must become a habit, otherwise an elusive idea may take wings for good while the one who evolved it is searching out the letters necessary to nail it hard and fast to the white sheet. Edwards has recently discovered that he can change from his full key-board to a shift-key and back again without materially interrupting his flow of ideas.
The characters of the key-board used for ordinary business purposes and those in demand by the writer are somewhat different. Not always, on the key-board designed for commercial use, will the exclamation point be found. This, if wanted, must be built up out of a period and a half-ditto mark, – “.” plus “’” equals “!” Such makeshifts should be tabooed by the careful writer. Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, and once. Three motions, two at the key-board and one at the back-spacer, are two too many. By all means have the real thing in exclamation points–!
Another makeshift with which Edwards has little patience is the custom of using ditto marks for quotation marks, and semi-dittos for semi-quotes. These, and other characters, may be added to most machines by eliminating the fractions, the oblique mark or the per cent. sign.
It seems poor policy, also, to use a hyphen, or two hyphens, to indicate a dash. Why not have the under-score raised to the position of a hyphen and so have a dash that is a dash?
The asterisk, “*,” is a character valuable for indicating footnotes, and the caret is often useful in making typewritten interlineations. All these characters Edwards has on his full key-board machine. On the shift-key machine he must still struggle with the built-up exclamation point, the ditto quotes and the hyphen dash. No wonder he prefers a Smith Premier!
Even the best and most up-to-date typewriter cannot answer all the demands made upon it by writers, however. Some day the growing army of authors will receive due attention in this matter, and the manuscript submitted to editors will compare favorably with the printed story.
In “Habits that Help,” a very instructive article by Walter D. Scott, professor of psychology at Northwestern University, published in Everybody’s Magazine for September, 1911, appears this paragraph:
“Some time ago I could pick out the lettters on a typewriter at a rate of about one per second. Writing is now becoming reduced to a habit, and I can write perhaps three letters a second. When the act has been reduced to the pure habit form, I shall be writing at the rate of not less than five letters per second.”
The “pure habit form” is one for those who compose on the typewriter to acquire. It not only means ease of composition, but speed in the performance and perfect legibility.
Until a few years ago, Edwards always carried his typewriter with him on his travels. The machine was large and heavy and had to be handled with care, so its transportation was no easy matter. In course of time, and pending the invention of a practical typewriter to fit the pocket, he became content to leave his machine at home and rent one wherever he happened to be.
During one of his eastern “prospecting” trips, Edwards and his wife left New York for a few summer weeks in the Berkshire Hills. The T.W., remained temporarily in the city to be overhauled and forwarded. For a fortnight Edwards slaved with a pen, writing four manuscripts of 25,000 words each. He appreciated then, as he had never done before, the value of the typewriter in his work. Late in the first week he began writing and telegraphing for his machine to be sent on.
About the hotel it was known that Edwards expected a typewriter by every stage from Great Barrington. He had fretted about the non-arrival of the typewriter, and in some manner had let fall the information that his typewriter weighed sixty pounds. Speculation was rife as to whether the T.W., had blue eyes or gray, and as to what manner of dwarf or living skeleton could fulfill the requirements at sixty pounds. When the machine finally arrived and the square packing case was unloaded, a host of curious ladies received the surprise of their lives.
“Typewriter,” commonly used as a generic name for the machine that prints, as well as for the person who operates it, should have its double meaning curtailed. The young lady of pleasing face and amiable deportment, whose deft fingers hover over the keys of a senseless machine, is entitled to something more appropriate in the way of a professional title.
Let it be “typist,” after the English fashion; and instead of saying “the typist typewrote the letter,” why not say she “typed” it?
An editor once returned a manuscript with a note like this:
Dear Sir: – Put it into narrative form.
Yours truly, “The Editor.”
I did so. A week later came this:
“Dear Sir: – A little mystery would help. We like your style very much. Yours truly,
“The Editor.”
I put in the mystery. A week later,–
“Dear Sir:– You send us good verse. Why not turn the marked paragraphs into verse, with strong influence on story? Well written.
“Yours truly, etc.”
It was a good idea. The verse was acceptable. It was so acceptable that the editor sent back the story and a check for $5 in payment for the verse – which was all he kept!
