HE’S GONE NOW, but he’d been one of our state’s best writers. I got to have lunch with him once at a restaurant near his home in Washoe Valley. He wore sweatpants. He hadn’t even shaved. I watched him, this wordsmith I so revered, as he stacked pickles on a hamburger and dredged fries through a puddle of ketchup. The napkin tucked lopsidedly in his collar. He was quite old, and very nice.

I’d seen a picture in a magazine of his trusty typewriter, a blue Royal. The keypads had stiff metal stems that surely required stronger fingers than did any computer keyboard. I imagined him typing—each keystroke bringing to life levers and hinges—from left to right, BANG!, hard return, new line. Letters into words separated by periods into pages separated by sips of tepid coffee. And so I asked: “Doesn’t using a typewriter make editing laborious?” (I use a word processor.) “I choose my words very carefully,” he said. He did not elaborate. He helped me appreciate the impact of a keystroke, and, in contrast, the irrelevance of sweatpants.

To me, the best stories are those that make us read faster in pursuit of an outcome and at once slower in appreciation of the sentences. I like good sentences as much as good plots. I like sad stories. I love funny stories. Everything is a story, if told right.

Writing is my obsession and I work hard at it. I read a lot too because I’m still learning, always will be. I make a living as a research scientist, but when I’m not in the lab I’m a writer. I’ve worked as a journalist but I decided to devote my time to making stuff up instead.

One keystroke at a time.