There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this!
You see, I was using the typewriter, but because I type 480 wpm, the person in the cubicle next to me, heard the "clackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclack" of the typebars hitting the platen and thought I was firing an automatic weapon. In fear of their safety they called the police who immediately sent the swat team. Suddenly, as I was dutifully typing my correspondence, a tear gas grenade landed at my feet and my cube began to fill with the lachrymatory agent! I coughed and wheezed, but pressed on in my efforts to utilize the typewriter. A second grenade sailed into my cube, followed by a third. The air was so thick with bromide I could barely see what I was typing. "T... h... i... s... space..." I typed, laboring with every keystroke, struggling for every breath. "i...s... space... a... space... b... u... s... i...n...e...". My breaths became shorter and shorter, my eyes and lungs burned. Blood flowed like battery acid to every finger... "s... s.. space... o...f... f.. i..c...e... space...". Finally, 23 armed swat team members rushed into my cube, threw me on the ground, beat me with batons and then handcuffed me. As they escorted me off the premises I asked for a pen and some paper to ensure that my correspondence would be complete. As I spent the next 3 months in various secret prisons and jails, being tortured and interrogated, I managed to scratch out the remainder of my correspondence by hand.
So as you can see, I made every attempt to type out my correspondence, but I was thwarted by the overzealous paranoia of my coworkers and I would appreciate a little recognition for my efforts.