There it sat among a jumble of antiques and trinkets, nestled between old crates, plates, lamps, and other artifacts from yesteryear—a weathered old Remington typewriter, its keys worn smooth by years of use, dust settling in and around its moving parts, rust creeping in. The carriage return lever was stiff; the platen dulled with age. It had been abandoned for some time, yet it still carried an air of quiet dignity, as if it were once an essential part of someone’s world.
I found it in a bustling market in Cairo, where past and present coexist. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and spices and the sounds of bargaining and laughter. Among the treasures on display—delicate glass bottles, stacks of vintage books, rotary telephones—this typewriter caught my eye. It wasn’t just an old machine. It was a relic of storytelling.
A window into another life
I wondered about its past. Who had once sat before this typewriter, pressing its keys with purpose? Was it a journalist in Egypt documenting history as it unfolded? A novelist, lost in the world of a yet-to-be-finished manuscript? Or perhaps a young student, carefully typing essays and assignments?
The beauty of an object like this is that it holds traces of the lives it once touched. The hands that once danced over its keys are long gone, but the stories it helped craft—some finished, some abandoned—still linger in the echoes of its worn-out ribbon.
The weight of words
Writing is fast, fluid, and endlessly editable in today's digital world. With just a few keystrokes, we can delete, rearrange, and refine our words until they feel just right. But a typewriter demands care and commitment. Every word hammered onto the page is permanent, and each letter is an intentional act. There’s no autocorrect, no easy way to erase mistakes—just the rhythmic tapping of keys and the satisfying sound of the carriage return.
There’s something beautiful about that process. It’s raw, immediate, and unfiltered—closer to thought meeting page than the polished, endlessly revised drafts of modern writing. Finding this Remington reminded me of that.
An artifact of storytelling
I didn’t buy the typewriter. I left it there for another writer or dreamer to discover. But I walked away thinking about the stories we leave behind—not just the ones we write, but the ones that exist in the objects we once used, the things we cherished, the tools that shaped our creative lives.
That dusty old Remington was more than just a forgotten relic. It was a testament to the enduring power of words. To the idea that stories—whether typed, handwritten, or digitally produced—have a way of lasting far beyond their creators.
Perhaps, even now, someone is sitting before an old typewriter somewhere, feeding in a fresh sheet of paper, ready to give a new story life.
Originally published on www.cloverlanepublishing.com. Intended for those interested in writing, publishing, and the author's journey.