By Margaux Blanchard

In an age of smart everything—phones, watches, fridges, even pens—there is something quietly radical about a typewriter. Clunky and analog, it doesn’t connect to Wi-Fi, offer predictive text, or bombard you with ads. What it does, however, is make a sound: a bold clack with each keystroke, a physical punctuation that demands presence. And in pockets of cities across the globe, typewriters are making a quiet resurgence not in private studies, but in public spaces—on sidewalks, in libraries, and in indie bookstores.

Welcome to the curious world of public typewriter projects.

The Bookstore That Became a Confessional

At Literati Bookstore in Ann Arbor, Michigan, a 1950s Royal typewriter sits unassumingly at the top of a narrow staircase. Its casing is worn smooth in places by the hands of strangers, its keys slightly dulled from decades of use. There is no velvet rope guarding it, no instruction manual, no expectation beyond a simple sign perched next to it: “Write something.” No further prompt. No time limit. No judgment. Just an invitation.

And write they do.

From the moment the store opens to its final evening hours, the typewriter rarely rests. Children climb onto the wooden stool with their legs dangling, pecking out sentences that meander between fantasy and stream-of-consciousness. College students on study breaks bang out short verses, aphorisms, or song lyrics. Tourists stumble upon it mid-browse and pause for a few minutes to leave their thoughts—half-finished, raw, often beautiful. Locals make pilgrimages back to the machine like an altar.

Some type heartfelt letters, never mailed. Others leave cryptic musings, punchy one-liners, inside jokes meant for nobody in particular. There are philosophical riddles, pointed political statements, silly limericks, and quiet prayers. There are pages addressed to lovers past and present, grandparents long gone, unborn children, God, and no one at all. “If anyone finds this, I’m okay now,” one message reads. “I miss who I was before,” says another.

Mike Gustafson, co-owner of Literati and the man who first placed the typewriter at the top of the stairs, says he had no idea it would become such a fixture—not just in the store, but in the emotional lives of the people who pass through it. “People will type things they would never say out loud,” he told Typebar Magazine“There’s anonymity in the clack of a typewriter that makes confession feel safe.”

That clack—sharp, rhythmic, mechanical—is nothing like the polite silence of a phone screen or a laptop keyboard. It demands intention. Each keystroke lands like a decision. You don’t type idly on a typewriter; you commit. While some models offer correction features, there’s still no easy undo. Mistakes stand out. You either own them—or start again. That sense of permanence can feel terrifying—or freeing.

Literati has been collecting the pages typed on the Royal since they first set it out years ago. At first, they simply tossed the sheets into a drawer. But as the volume increased, so did the sense that something more meaningful was happening. So they began saving them in binders, then digitizing them. There are now thousands of pages—scrapbooked, archived, preserved. A living, breathing diary of the bookstore’s visitors, of Ann Arbor, and of the moment we’re living in.

“Reading through them is like browsing the soul of a city,” Gustafson says. “It’s this constant reminder that everyone has a story—everyone’s carrying something.”

Some of the messages make you laugh out loud. Others stop you in your tracks.

One page reads, “My mother died yesterday. I walked into this bookstore because I didn’t want to cry on the sidewalk. I found this typewriter and suddenly I’m crying anyway.” Another simply says, “I’m 17 and scared of growing up. If you’re reading this in the future, I hope I made it.”

There’s something cathartic in the act of leaving these thoughts behind—anonymous and untethered. The physicality of typing, of pressing down a key and leaving an actual imprint, creates an intimacy rarely found in the digital world. A person typed this. With their fingers. With purpose. There are ink smudges and fingerprints on the pages. Some carry the ghost of hesitation—a misaligned word, a key struck too hard, a tear-stain on the corner.

And while the content varies wildly, a few themes emerge: longing, loneliness, love. Uncertainty. Hope. A yearning to be known.

The Royal becomes not just a relic of analog nostalgia, but a conduit for unfiltered self-expression. It belongs to no one and everyone. Gustafson jokes that the typewriter may be the bookstore’s most popular employee—“It never takes a sick day”—but he’s serious about the way it fosters connection.

“We don’t edit anything,” he explains. “We don’t censor. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence. About someone sitting down for five minutes and choosing to share something.”

Over time, visitors have returned just to check the latest pages. “It’s like a secret social network without the toxicity,” one student remarked. Others have flipped through the binders and recognized the handwriting—or the words—of someone they know. This quiet, evolving community is reminiscent of the fragmented, mysterious world in The Twenty Days of Turin, where people find solace in anonymous messages and cryptic exchanges. Much like the characters in the novel, who communicate in subtle, hidden ways amidst an overwhelming atmosphere of uncertainty, the typewriter project creates a space where thoughts are shared openly yet privately, a kind of analog social network for those seeking connection without the noise of modern technology.

Sometimes, the writing is mundane. Grocery lists, reminders, doodles typed in Xs and Os. But more often than not, there’s a depth that surprises even the writers themselves. The typewriter becomes a kind of confessional, one where the priest is replaced by an old machine and the booth is a busy stairwell.

One visitor typed, “I’m on my way to ask someone to marry me. I’m terrified.” A few days later, another typed: “She said yes.”

Another: “This is the first thing I’ve written since I got out of prison.”

And yet another: “I’m trying to love myself again.”

Literati eventually published a book in 2018 compiling some of the most moving entries. Titled Notes From a Public Typewriter, it’s a testament to the small, anonymous bursts of courage, curiosity, and vulnerability that can come when you’re given permission to be unfiltered. The book became a quiet bestseller—ironically, in the age of hyper-curated Instagram captions and bite-sized tweets, a raw, analog form of expression resonated with thousands.

Why, in 2025, with infinite platforms to express ourselves, do we still need a clunky old typewriter in the corner of a bookstore?

The answer might be found in the very limitations of the machine. There is no autocorrect. No spell check. No distraction from notifications or the temptation to Google something mid-sentence. Writers are flocking to typewriters (and typewriter-inspired modern digital devices) because when you sit down, all you can do is write. That kind of intentionality feels almost radical now. In its constraint, the typewriter offers something expansive: focus. Honesty. Presence.

For some, it’s therapeutic. For others, nostalgic. For many, it’s simply novel—a way to tap into something physical and real in an increasingly digitized world. But across all users, there’s a shared sense that something sacred happens when you write without expectation, knowing your words might be read by a stranger—or no one at all. Gustafson reflects on the early days, when the typewriter was still a curious experiment. “I figured people might write a few poems, or maybe a grocery list. I didn’t expect confessions. I didn’t expect grief. I didn’t expect joy. But the human heart finds a way to speak, if you give it a space to do so.”

He’s seen people propose at the typewriter. He’s seen children spell out their names for the first time. He’s seen elderly visitors pause at the top of the stairs, running their fingers over the keys with tears in their eyes, remembering a time when this sound—the clack, the ding—was part of everyday life.

“It’s a relic,” he says. “But it’s also a mirror.”

In a world that often feels too loud and too fast, the Royal typewriter at Literati has become something quiet and still. A place where time slows, where language becomes tactile again, where strangers speak across the void. It is old, yes—but its purpose is timeless.

And perhaps that’s what makes it endure. Not because we miss typewriters, necessarily—but because we miss pausing. We miss being honest. We miss saying something out loud, even if it’s just in ink and anonymity.

And so the pages keep coming. New thoughts layered atop old ones. A living archive of fleeting emotions made permanent, in ink and clang and paper. A city’s soul, typed one page at a time.

On the Streets of New Orleans, Poetry for the People

Down in the French Quarter of New Orleans, you might come across a man hunched over a beat-up typewriter on a folding table. This is the Typewriter Troubadour, aka Benjamin Aleshire. For years, Aleshire has made a living by composing poems on-demand for passersby. The rules are simple: you give him a topic—love, grief, your dog named Pickles—and he types. What you receive is a one-of-a-kind piece of art, instantly human and completely unedited. Aleshire describes his work as an exchange of vulnerability. “People open up to you,” he said to Typebar Magazine. “They tell you their secrets, and you give them something honest in return.”

In an era of curated Instagram feeds and generative AI, Aleshire’s practice feels oddly futuristic in its insistence on the here-and-now. You get one chance to strike the keys, and what comes out becomes permanent. There’s a romance in that imperfection.

 The Global Spread of Typewriter Stations

The public typewriter phenomenon, once a quaint curiosity in indie corners of the U.S., has begun to ripple across the globe, taking root in cities far beyond Ann Arbor or New Orleans. It turns out that the hunger for something tactile, something human, something unfiltered and imperfect, is not a localized yearning—it’s a global one.

In London, the Southbank Centre—Europe’s largest arts centre—has played host to several typewriter installations over the past decade. These aren’t just dusty relics left for decorative effect. They are deliberately set up in the foyer or beside windows with sweeping views of the Thames, and they come with a singular prompt: “Write a letter for someone who needs it.” Visitors are invited to leave anonymous letters tucked into a dropbox, which are then compiled and displayed in rotating exhibits. Some are sent out into the world as part of broader community art initiatives, distributed in coffee shops and shelters. Others are simply kept on-site, quietly read by strangers who wander by.

In Melbourne, Australia, a man known simply as “The Paper Prophet” sets up his mobile typewriter station at the Queen Victoria Market on Sundays. Dressed in a waistcoat and fedora, he invites passersby to sit for a moment and type out a message—anything they want. Sometimes, he offers writing prompts. Other times, he just hands over the machine and walks away. Locals and tourists alike find themselves pouring out memories, wishes, dreams, regrets. He posts some of these entries (with permission) on a community blog, a living diary of city life.

Toronto’s Kensington Market has also seen its share of typewriter activism. In a small alleyway filled with murals and outdoor bookshelves, a collective known as “Typoetry” places refurbished Smith-Coronas and Olympias on folding tables during the city’s monthly Pedestrian Sundays. They call it an “analog soapbox”—a chance for people to vent, dream, declare, and create, all without fear of likes or shares or judgment. Some visitors write poems. Others transcribe thoughts they’ve had for years but never had the courage to say aloud. One woman typed an entire apology letter to her father, folded the page neatly, and left it on the table without a word. The machine hums throughout the day, not with electricity but with the soft momentum of people being honest.

In Berlin, there’s a café called Die Schreibmaschine—The Typewriter—where every table comes with its own working model. Diners are encouraged to use the typewriters between courses or while sipping their espresso. At first, most are hesitant, but once the keys start clacking, it’s hard to stop. The café walls are covered in pages left behind: poetic fragments, doodles, manifestos, even flirtations. Some are signed, most are not. It has become a dating spot for introverts, a sanctuary for writers in dry spells, and a surprising tourist destination. The café owner describes it best: “It’s less about writing well and more about writing freely.”

Even in Tokyo, where technology reigns supreme, there are pockets of resistance where the analog spirit still thrives. A quiet bookstore in the Shimokitazawa district hosts a monthly “Slow Writing Night,” where the lights are dimmed, jazz is played on vinyl, and attendees are invited to write letters or journal entries using vintage typewriters provided by the store. Locals report a kind of meditative calm that settles in during these sessions—an act of rebellion against the nonstop pace of city life. It’s (type)writing as ritual, uniting people across cultures, languages, and locales..

So what unites these disparate projects in cities with vastly different cultures, languages, and daily rhythms? Why does the public typewriter—this relic of a pre-digital age—resonate so deeply across borders?

The typewriter and its related projects thrive because they offer what digital tools increasingly lack: tactility, presence, and a sense of occasion. There is no app that can simulate the resistance of a key being pressed, the sound of a type slug hitting paper, the faint scent of ribbon and metal. When you sit down at a typewriter, you’re not passively consuming. You’re doing something. You’re creating, and you’re committing to each word as you type it.

What you type is what you meant, even if you didn’t mean it. That kind of rawness has been stripped from much of our communication, which is increasingly manicured, cropped, and captioned for impact. On a public typewriter, you are momentarily freed from that polish. There’s no edit button, and in that imperfection, there is beauty.

It’s also about vulnerability. The act of typing in a public space—knowing your words might be read by a stranger—can feel simultaneously terrifying and liberating. And yet, over and over again, people do it. They sit down, they type, they leave something behind. A little scrap of themselves. A digital device can be wiped clean. A typewritten page, though—it exists. It endures.

Another thing that binds these installations is their sense of shared intimacy. You are writing on the same machine that hundreds, maybe thousands, of others have used. You can feel the wear in the space bar. The keys are sticky in places. Ink may be fading. And still, you write. There’s something profoundly human about that continuity—about knowing that your words will mix and mingle with those of strangers who came before you and will come after.

Many of these projects have been born from grassroots movements, independent bookstores, or street artists. Rarely are they commercialized. There’s no monetized platform, no subscription fee. Just a machine, some paper, and an invitation. The analog simplicity of it all feels almost revolutionary in a world governed by metrics and monetization.

These global typewriter stations are not just about nostalgia, although nostalgia certainly plays a role. They are about reclamation—reclaiming the act of writing as something personal, physical, and communal. They stand at the intersection of art and activism, memory and moment, the solitary and the shared.

And as more cities take notice, we may begin to see even more creative iterations: typewriter confessionals in churches, mobile typewriter booths at festivals, rooftop installations during artist residencies. The form will evolve, but the spirit remains the same.

At heart, the public typewriter is a kind of democratic magic. It invites everyone—regardless of age, language, or writing skill—to participate in the act of expression. It levels the playing field. All you need is a thought and the will to press down a key.

In a digital world built on endless choice, it’s this simplicity that feels radical. One key. One letter. One thought, made real.

Dr. Elena Murata, a cultural psychologist who studies nostalgia and creativity, believes there’s a deeper reason we’re drawn to typewriters now. “We live in a hyper-documented world where everything we do is watched, optimized, and stored in the cloud,” she told Typebar Magazine.. “The typewriter resists that. It offers a kind of privacy and permanence that digital platforms can’t.”

Murata also points out that the manual nature of typing slows us down. “There’s a cognitive rhythm to typing on a typewriter that mirrors thinking itself. You have to mean each word. That slowness creates space for reflection.”

An Anti-Surveillance, Pro-Sincerity Machine

There’s an unspoken rule at most public typewriter installations: what is typed is sacred. Pages are collected, stored, or sometimes displayed. Rarely are they digitized. That makes them the opposite of social media posts—ephemeral yet enduring, seen by few but remembered deeply.

For many, that’s the point. Typewriters are anti-surveillance, pro-sincerity.

“I typed a breakup letter at Literati,” one visitor confessed in a blog post. “I didn’t send it. I just needed to put it somewhere. The typewriter held it for me.”

Typing transforms into a ritual. Unlike journaling or texting, it feels purposeful and performative—you’re not just making a record for yourself, but for anyone who might read it later. And even if no one does, the act itself still holds meaning.

The Community Effect

Mike Gustafson notes that Literati’s typewriter has become a kind of communal memory project. “We’ve seen people respond to each other across pages, continuing stories, asking questions. It’s created this strange, beautiful conversation between strangers.”

In New Orleans, Aleshire has watched people cry as they read the poems he types for them. “It’s not just about nostalgia,” he says. “It’s about being seen. In the moment, without filters.”

Where It Goes From Here

As more cities experiment with analog installations—public pianos like those found in New York’s Grand Central Station, poetry boxes such as the ones in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, and letter-writing benches in places like the UK’s Penzance—typewriters may continue to hold a unique place in the cultural imagination. They are, after all, machines built for one thing: words. But in a world drowning in words, the typewriter demands a slower, more deliberate kind of expression.

The inked ribbon is finite. The paper is limited. The noise is unavoidable. In all these ways, the typewriter forces us to show up.

Whether it’s a child tapping out their first poem in Ann Arbor, a grieving stranger in London leaving a note in a library, or a tourist in New Orleans surprised by how deeply a street poem touched them—these moments matter.

They remind us that sometimes, to feel human again, all we need is a machine that does nothing but listen.

Margaux Blanchard is a freelance journalist and cultural writer whose work explores the intersection of memory, community, and the creative impulse. Her writing has appeared in Business Insider and other outlets. She’s especially drawn to analog art forms, public storytelling, and how people leave traces of themselves in shared spaces. Margaux is based in the United States.

Photo by Andraz Lazic.