I write in long hand -- something, I guess, that is unusual for writers in general, I don't know. In today’s technologically abstract world, if you don't have a computer screen blinking a cursor at you on its digital page you are extinct. I feel extinct some days. I have lost touch with technology.

I guess I write long hand because paper and pen are so much more available then to lay ones hands on a laptop. I don't own a laptop. I do own a computer, which takes up nearly 50% of the desk it occupies. I write there too. I am working on a novel, which should be finished shortly -- Christmas by my estimations. The story is done in my head; many of the pages are typed and unedited. I am a poor writer, both monetarily and grammatically. Not surprising since I never graduated high school. At the time, it was a bore, I needed an escape -- I joined the service. (Not a very good escape, take it from me.)

I filed that experience away in the apothecary chest of endless drawers in my mind, along with most of the other experiences. Some easier to find then others. (Because I remembered to label some of the drawers, but alas not all of them.)