Imagine me, sitting at my robust mahogany desk, trimmed with brass and burnished leather. I’m toiling away at my manuscript, the stillness of the room punctuated by the rapid clack of my vintage Remington 5. I reach the end of the page, yank it from the platen, and lay it on my growing sheaf, upon which I place my prized paper weight—which I lovingly refer to as Big Richard Thick Thighs.
