Reading it once more after so many years, I’ve had to resist a nervous itch to touch it up here, to change it there, to clarify, correct, elaborate, cut. After all, the book is twenty years younger than I, and I have changed so much, and it hasn’t. Or has it?
As I sit writing my novel, I wish I heard and felt the clicking of a typewriter. It would make my story that much more tangible.