During my senior year of high school, after my first submission in my writer’s craft class, I had my ass hauled to the professor’s office, for a short but pointed interrogation on my writing process, which would serve to gather evidence on the hush-hush suspicion of plagarism that was leveled at me. There was a lot of that following me around the hallways in my senior year and I was a paranoid android to begin with, so conspiracies had a way of landing smack dab in my wheelhouse, you see. The story I submitted in writer’s craft class was a lengthy chamber piece I had improvised on a typewriter (God, I can’t recall the specific make, so there go all my beliefs in a romantic relation between me and my tools), and by George, it was true, everything they said about typewriters was true, because I had felt like a jazz musician that night; after I began typing, the story had to completed in one fell swoop, as it were, and that rhythm! God, that unforgettable early rhythm, my fingers danced and danced and danced, and out rushed these beautiful words, words I did not know resided in me, words I did not know full stop. So I told my professor all of this. Yeah, I wrote the piece. Was it plagiarized? I did not know the meaning of the word. There were no early drafts. There was no process. There was nothing. And then there were these words. But in between, and this is what really mattered, there was the white hot samba over the keys, the click-click-clack beat, that unforgettable rhythm that propelled me forward to bang away on those keys until I was exhausted. Long story short, the professor was convinced and I got the “A”. Funny enough, many years later, the story ended up being plagiarized in some other student’s samba, so maybe it was never mine to begin with and was merely floating in the ether, waiting to be plucked, and maybe the professor was correct after all. Still, I got the grade. But I have no memory of what happened to that typewriter. And maybe that’s what really matters in this anecdote.