The typewriter mocked me with wisps of dust clinging to greased machinery in its belly. It might have spit out a message that said, “You’re no writer. Come and type your grocery list.”

The keys crouched menacingly. I thought I heard the carriage ding, signaling the end of the line for me.

Smirking, I turned to my laptop. No need for a typewriter when I had such advanced technology to help me write my novel. No correction tape. No ribbons. No messy piles of paper. Just a comfortable machine whir and a mass of potential.

I threw another glance at the glowering typewriter and opened a new document.

“The night was…” I began. Was the night stormy? No. Humid?

Just then, Sandy sent me an instant message with a link to a website full of photos of cats saying clever things. Almost 400 photos! I looked at all of them. They sure cracked me up. I replied to Sandy with smiley emoticons.

Just then, John emailed me about Friday’s barbecue. “Chicken or beef?” he wondered.

“The night was sultry.” said the typewriter.