There is that brief period of time —perhaps half a decade at most, in the tween years — in which I was both concerned and interested in my typing speed, that imperial unit measured in Words Per Minute. How fast you could type, and with as few errors as possible, was a goal post. I don’t remember being all that competitive about it (but I probably was), nor back in the mid-nineties do I remember being all that interested in writing very much and very fast (but I probably was).
I hadn’t thought about it all that much about typing speeds (mine or otherwise) in perhaps two full decades. Except for all at once recently in some brief sprint at which a few paragraphs poured out at a rate that seemed suspiciously fast. And so then googling to test it out, my speed now as an adult is 85 words per minute, which I mentioned not as form of bragging, but more as a strange index of a measure of something else; that I hadn’t ever actually thought or put any real conscious effort to get faster at typing – but somehow, I just did.
And yet, my speed of typing today so rarely seems to be the truncating obstacle of creation, or communication. What I’m worried about, often times multiplied many times per minute, about what errors or ommissions I might commit— that is the WPM rate I am interested in changing.