I also like the 030 Compact Macs for writing. It is what they really excel at, as I see it (I like Nisus Writer 5 with Verdana as the screen font). In a certain sense it is what the Compacts were designed for, i.e., the production of documents. They were often just called “word processors” back in the day, after all. Computers today are not designed for this in any real sense at all, and I find that they tend to be jarring when used for simpler tasks like writing, a little like cracking a nut with a sledge hammer.
Distraction-free writing tools are popping up all over the place, of course, from full-screen mode on your latest M2 MBP or whatever, right to going back to typewriters or even pencils and scribblers. A Classic II makes a good middle way between these options, gives an old machine an actual use, works well, provides an avenue for exploring old technology, and so on — and this combination of factors for many people proves really satisfying. Part of the pleasure lies in seeing how much you can get out of one of the things. If writing is the goal, then the answer to the question, ‘How much can I get out of this little machine?’ is, quite a lot. There is genuine pleasure in doing work with a particular tool that is well suited to the task, and so, a Classic II may have an elegance in your hands that make the process more enjoyable.
The other side of matter, however, lies in the mind of the writer rather than in the machine. Writers tend to have rituals, ways of doing things that tend to work for them, and that they become attached to. Some of it borders on superstition, like hockey players who always lace up the left skate first and whatnot. Writers will write at specific hours of the day, they will go for a walk at fixed intervals, they will read fiction for two hours before beginning, they will sit at a favourite desk, they may use fountain pens and paper and then write up what they have drafted on a machine — whatever. If the ritual is interrupted, then it becomes much more difficult to write, as the tool and setting is embedded too deeply in the process to be changed without effect. Writers accordingly search around for the magic combination that makes the words flow, and once they find it, they won’t let it go. Woody Allen, for instance, wrote all his screenplays on one battered old Olympia typewriter, with a missing ribbon cover. He didn’t live within those limitations because he couldn’t afford anything better! He did it because it was part of the ritual, because it worked for him, and because he enjoyed doing things that way.
The means and context of writing matter to writers. This goes back a long way in time. When metal nibs were introduced for dip pens, there were major literary figures who claimed that they couldn’t use them for creative work and stuck with goose feathers (seriously, this happened). When the typewriter was introduced, there were writers who swore that mechanization was incompatible with imagination, and continued with their pens. And there are people today who for whatever reason find the use of high-powered machines for low-powered tasks to be somehow incongruous, and who accordingly are looking for the “right” tool, a better match between form and function. Some of them are rediscovering the pleasures of using a Classic II. I salute you, sir!
