Why the Typewriter Resurgence Matters for Democracy

When Katharine Tito approached the vintage typewriter at Monmouth University in West Long Branch, New Jersey, skepticism was written across her face. Though she'd spotted typewriters in thrift stores, she'd never actually used one. As a graphic design student immersed in digital tools, the mechanical contraption before her seemed like a relic. But as she began typing people's messages to the President of the United States for my "I Wish to Say" project, something shifted. Her fingers found their rhythm on the keys, and her expression transformed.

"It's different from anything I've experienced," she told me. "Each keystroke feels weighty, permanent. You can't just delete and start over. You have to think about every word. Sometimes people would talk too fast, and I'd have to tell them, 'You've got to slow down because I can only go so quickly.'" As I watched students gather around her desk, drawn by the hypnotic clacking of keys, I witnessed a revelation I've seen countless times: the moment people discover the power of slowing down to truly engage with their thoughts and words.

This transformation isn't happening in isolation. On the eve of World Typing Day tomorrow, we're witnessing a typewriter renaissance. Taylor Swift captures the romance and allure of typewriters in her songs and videos. Retro typewriter fonts dominate Instagram. Tom Hanks is showcasing vintage typewriters from his personal collection at a New York exhibition, while customers flock to specialty shops like Philly Typewriter, craving something more real than pixels.

The 2024 presidential election laid bare what my typewriter has shown me all along—beneath the predictions of seismic political shifts, we remain a nation divided by the thinnest of margins.

This resurgence reflects a more profound cultural shift. In an era of rapid-fire texts and tweets, hot takes on social media, and barking demands at Siri and Alexa, people are yearning for more deliberate forms of communication and connection. I've seen this hunger grow over two decades of "I Wish to Say," as I set up my pop-up desk in libraries, schools, and town squares across America. From the presidency of George W. Bush through Joe Biden's term, I've invited people to dictate their hopes and fears, their dreams and demands. The experience transforms both me and the speaker. As words are deliberately pressed into paper, I watch people pause, reconsider their phrasing, and weigh the permanence of their message. The steady rhythm of metal striking paper—that distinctive clack-clack-ding—seems to create a space for reflection that our digital devices rarely allow.

This practice of what I call "radical listening"—deeply engaging with another person's words as you type them—offers a powerful antidote to our current political polarization. When someone participates in "I Wish to Say," I absorb everything: their words, their body language, the way they prepare themselves before beginning to dictate. The typewriter creates a unique space of trust—as they watch and hear their words being struck into paper, one letter at a time, they know they're truly being heard. Some have likened it to therapy, this experience of having someone listen with such complete attention.

I've seen its particular relevance on college campuses. One week after the 2024 election, I set up my typewriter at Scripps College in Southern California. The campus was tense, emotions raw. Student after student approached my desk, their concerns for the future were palpable. But something transformed as they watched their words appear on paper. One student reflected on the catharsis of the experience."I feel something," she said. "I can't quite tell you what it is, but I feel good."

What I've learned through thousands of these exchanges is acute: You never really know what someone thinks until you sit down and truly listen. In our era of instant reactions and digital silos, this kind of deep listening has become increasingly rare—and increasingly vital.

The typewriter renaissance isn't an isolated phenomenon—it's part of a broader return to real-world connections. Across the country, young people are seeking alternatives to the exhausting cycle of social media discourse and genuine bonding. Running groups are replacing swipe-right romance. Reading parties in public spaces are drawing crowds. Gen Z players are flocking to old-school chess, mahjong, and backgammon clubs, drawn to the thrill of face-to-face competition. Screen-free cafes are becoming sanctuaries of uninterrupted conversation and deep thought. These shifts speak to something we all know deep down: IRL moments beat scrolling every time.

Two decades of typing other people's words have revealed a fundamental truth about communication—and democracy. The 2024 presidential election laid bare what my typewriter has shown me all along—beneath the predictions of seismic political shifts, we remain a nation divided by the thinnest of margins. The historically narrow House majority and razor-thin popular vote aren't just statistics. They reflect a nation that desperately needs new ways to bridge its differences. The typewriter, with its demanding presence and unforgiving permanence, shows us a new way forward: Slow down before you speak, choose your words with care, and embrace the transformative power of truly listening to another person's perspective.

These lessons extend far beyond the typewriter itself. In our civic discourse, our professional lives, and our personal relationships, we're all searching for ways to break free from the reactive and often toxic impulses of communication through our screens. Sometimes the most radical act is simply to pause, to consider our words carefully, and to create space for genuine dialogue—one metaphorical keystroke at a time.