In Allie Millington’s debut middle grade novel, Olivetti, a long-forgotten typewriter, by some mysterious force, begins to communicate with a 12-year-old boy as he searches for his missing mother. Here, Millington reflects on the old-fashioned charm of typewriters, and the universal desire for connection through storytelling.
Typewriters, with all their charm and character, have played an important role in countless lives across history and the world. One of my favorite parts about the publication journey of Olivetti has been hearing the memories and meaning that these machines hold for so many people. At the very bottom of the millennial bracket, I didn’t grow up in a generation that heard the clacking of typewriter keys on a consistent basis. And yet, even I can’t help but feel a profound connection to them, swept up in nostalgia for simpler times that I never took part in.
I find typewriters to be rebels at heart—counter-cultural icons that, despite all odds, have managed to escape extinction. Be it Tom Hanks’s infectious fascination, or the pursuit of pastimes we’ve seen since peak-pandemic, these machines are experiencing a resurgence. What is it that brings us back to their keys, hunching before their steel frames to divulge our stories and secrets? Perhaps one reason is that we have something to learn from them, an understanding needed now more than ever. I certainly found this to be the case as I typed up my first draft of Olivetti on a typewriter, an experience that brought deep value not only to my writing process, but to other areas of my life as well.
To me, typewriters represent the lost art of slowing down, reflecting, and remembering—habits often forgotten in our fast-paced society. There is a certain thoughtfulness that comes in clicking their keys, a tactile type of storytelling that feels almost communal—a joint effort of exploration. They offer us the ability to process in a way that is both present and permanent, giving power to our mistakes by withholding any possibility of deletion. As we bash their keys, typewriters are unabashedly themselves, reminding us that there are words worth sharing within us all. True, they are tedious, and incredibly clunky to transport, but they possess a clarity of purpose, a confidence in why they were made, which many of us find ourselves searching for.
With the world always looking to what’s next and new, especially in the publishing industry where we plan for projects years in advance, it’s easy to gloss over the present—even more so the past. Being stationary, typewriters have mastered the skill of staying in the moment. And at the same time, they are a means of passing down memories, bridging the gap between different generations and bringing people together.
I believe the middle grade age group in particular is craving this kind of connection, a place to be heard and be part of. There is an assumption that the attention kids give to screens proves otherwise, but so much of social media is rooted in the desire to share stories, to be seen and found by others. At its core, this innate need is a common thread woven across cultures and throughout centuries, and perhaps why we can relate to an overlooked typewriter trying to find his voice in Olivetti; we want our words and lives to mean something. This is certainly true for 12-year-old Ernest in my book, who searches for meaning in his collection of dictionaries to try and make sense of the world and himself.
I’d love for Olivetti to be that place for readers young and old, where they feel seen and understood and connected. And that in some small way, my book might be able to do what typewriters have done for decades—offering a spot to slow down, a spot to speak up, and be a bridge that brings people together.
Olivetti by Allie Millington. Feiwel and Friends, $17.99 Mar. 26 ISBN 978-1-250326-93-5
