In 1985 I experienced my first broken bone.
I didn’t shatter a femur skydiving, or have my rib cracked by an anaconda. Nor did the accident involve any other brave undertaking, natural disaster, or wild animal. Instead, my proximal phalanx (otherwise known as my big toe) was broken by a humble typewriter. An off-white, manual, portable typewriter from Sears, to be precise.
I had received the typewriter as a 12th birthday gift the year before, fancying myself the next great American novelist. I had a lot of fun with that typewriter, composing tales of adolescent highs and lows and attempting to emulate the storytelling styles of Erma ...