I was thinking about my typewriter, the one I took to the thrift store last year during the great Purge O’Possessions. That led me to think about the arguments I used to have with an upstairs neighbor when I first moved to San Diego in 1984. He had a MacIntosh. I had a typewriter with a memory. He would say, “A computer is so much easier. Your typewriter is inefficient. To revise your work, you have to type it all over again.”
I would say, “I don’t need a computer. Why would I need a computer?” I was writing a book at the time — a nonfiction book about Pearl S. Buck as a writer in the Chinese literary tradition vs. the American literary tradition. It was a monster of research. I had note cards all over the place
Then he and his boyfriend went away to Japan for a month, and he left his MacIntosh on my dining room table. The rest is histor(ical fiction).