Her whole life, the typist had wanted to be a writer, and it was purely coincidental that she decided to focus on the technical aspect of things.
There weren’t many typing positions available in the modern world. Instead of looking for another career, the typist bought a pink suit, a cute hat, wiggled her hands, and stepped into the nineteen sixties. (It never occurred to her that time-travel was physically impossible. After all, many people had funny skills.)
She immediately found a job at a lawyer’s office. From morning to evening she would type tirelessly, until her fingers were burning. Once she knew everything about the words of the law, she left, and started typing for an old doctor, thus learning the words of medicine. She then moved on, successively working for advertisers, real-estate agents, professors, factory owners, and even for a local radio station.
She soon became known as the best typist in town. She would lay her hands on the keyboard, purse her lips, and the words would happen. She was so competent, people quickly went on to other tasks, almost forgetting that she existed. No one stopped at her desk or told her what to do. Had they done so, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. She knew the words, and the words needed to be typed. The words needed her.
Interestingly enough, no one ever seemed to notice there was something odd about that girl. They never saw beyond the perfect documents that came out of her typewriter – out of nowhere, really.
Her? She was just a pretty typist.