Used to be, back in the ancient days between the two world wars of the last century, writers slaved at their desks during the morning hours, perhaps tapping a staccato beat on the plastic keys, perhaps coldly staring at a blank sheet of vellum in their trusty Remington portable typewriters, perhaps coddling a ribbon between the metal guides, perhaps cleaning the ink from the faces of the strike keys with an old toothbrush and baking soda. Five hundred words later (if you were Hemingway), you put away the Remington and went out for a late lunch or an early aperitif. You might mix with other writers, sharing boasts, laments, and stories about those unfortunate enough to not be present at your table (especially if you were Hemingway). You were a writer, part of the warp and weave of your city's cultural tapestry. You walked the streets, you drank, you argued, often you fought, more often you ended up in the bed of another writer, or poet, or dancer, or artist, fidelity not being a prerequisite of a writer’s life. Today...well, we all know all about today, with our phones and social media platforms...how many writers know their agents, in the flesh? Their editors and publishers? How many sit at tables to break bread with other writers (beyond the womb of a writing program)? How many depend upon social media to replace the brotherhood and sisterhood of the moveable feast? Technology is a wonderful tool for a writer, but is it an encapsulated life? Just asking...