Dan's Papers - July 27, 2007 - The Sheltered Islander #457

Some years back, I worked for Jean Randall, who ran The Executive Option here on Shelter Island. It was a wonderful walk-in secretarial service that I think everyone on the Island used at one time or another to have something copied, faxed, FedEx-ed or typed, until Jean passed, God rest her.

One of her longtime clients was Leon Uris. Jean and he enjoyed a warm friendship and he thought the world of her.

I'm not impressed by actors or sports figures, but writers knock me out. I was dumbstruck when I met Mr. Uris and got to type for him while working for Jean. I transcribed (on a typewriter) pages full of handwritten changes for him.

One evening, while I was transcribing a few chapters into the computer, I said, "You know, Leon, not to chase away business, but, if you're typing this anyway, why not type it into a computer?"

He said, "Never! That machine is evil and we don't speak each other's language." I didn't pursue it further.

About two months ago, I opened my own walk-in secretarial service called Flynn's Flying Fingers, based on the need the Island has for such a service. Last week, a tall, tan, blond-haired, blue-eyed, Teutonic god with a European accent, walked into my office and plopped down a half a ream of typed paper, full of handwritten changes. He wanted me to enter it into the computer and print it out for him, with many revisions to come.

Looking at the manuscript, I thought to myself, "He's not old school, why doesn't he type this into a computer himself?" A thought like that normally enters my mind and exits straight out of my mouth, but not this time. This time, it got detoured to the back of my mind and landed in one of my three Shut Your Mouth files:

1. Shut your mouth, because no one asked for your opinion
2. Shut your mouth, because to complain is to volunteer
3. Shut your mouth, because it's none of your business.

I think it landed in File 3.

But the eyes are the windows to the soul. He looked at me and said, "I know what you are thinking. Why doesn't he just type it into the computer himself?"

"I thought it, but I didn't say it," I confessed, "So it doesn't count."

"Yes, but I saw it in your eyes," he said. If he looked closer, he'd have seen a few other things there too, but I digress. "It's just that I hate the computer," he continued, "I tried to learn, but it takes too much time. If I type on a typewriter, it can't change or hide anything. And if I don't like what I wrote, I can yank it out of the machine and throw it away."

"And I don't trust it. If I turn off the computer without hitting the right combination of buttons first, then the paper is gone the next time I turn it on. I don't think it really shuts off. Just the screen goes off and then it shreds my work so it's not there when I go to get it the next time."

"It's really all right," I said, "not to want to use a computer, even though it's expected in your generation. Matter of fact, you're in fine company."

"You think so? Do you know other writers who hate computers?"

"Did you ever read Exodus? QB VII? Trinity? Oh, my dear, you are in the finest company indeed."