I’m what you might call a born-again luddite. There was a time when I believed that I owed my writing life to modern technology. I learned to type on Windows 95 with Mario Teaches Typing, I used right-clicking as my thesaurus, and I penned my first short story on a first-generation Macbook. I once was lost, but now I’m found. I got saved back in college when I picked up a pre-war Underwood Portable at an antique store in San Diego. The machine was in good shape, and its vintage suited my great-American-novelist pretensions at the time. I oiled it, bought a new ribbon, and got to work. The words I pecked out of the Underwood were better than the ones on my hard drive, so I never looked back. By better I mean warmer, closer to the reader, flawed in a human way–any vinyl collector or guitarist with a tube amp knows what I mean

My typewriter thing is more like a fetish than a work habit. Something you either get or you don’t. I didn’t need reasons to go analog, but here are few that might encourage you to unplug:

To read the rest of my piece, which includes a typewriter buyers guide, go to  Broke Ass Stuart.

My new Olivetti 22