The other day, my students gave me a pencil holder in the shape of a typewriter. They did this as a kind gesture, and they chose a typewriter because they know I am an English teacher and an author. What they didn’t know is how much I love typewriters.

I don’t have a typewriter, but my dad had one while I was growing up. I loved to play with his typewriter. I liked the sound of the keys clacking. I like the ding it made when you got to the end of the line. I liked the heft of the carriage as I slid it back to the left. I loved it all.

My favorite thing to do, however, was to set up a piece of paper and bang on the keys randomly until I got to the end of the paper. Then I would take what I had written to my mom, and I would ask her to circle all the real words I had managed to write. I’d light up with pride when she would return the paper and I could see all the circled words. I asked her to tell me what I had written, and she would. I remember feeling delighted and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment at writing something before I even knew how to read or write.

Now, I don’t bang on random keys on a typewriter. I write messages and stories on a laptop; although, I really do miss the feel and sound of a typewriter, but it’s simply not practical for me to use one anymore. Regardless of the method, I still have a feeling of delight and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment when I create something new by writing words.

So, thank you to the students who gave me the typewriter pencil holder. I love it, and it’s a beautiful connection to the origins of my love of writing. My heart swells with joy every time I see it.