It’s not for lack of tools that’s deterring him to write. He’s got enough of it. More than enough, for sure. His laptop may be three years old but it’s still better than a typewriter, though he sometimes wish he still had one of those family heirloom, that clunky yet sturdy, made-in-America—the land of the free but indebted—writing machine. He loves the steady clicks of it as he types as if validating his every word, every dictum, every idea he churns out. Then it speaks in silence when he’s done, yet is eagerly awaiting for the next set of ideas, which he would create in partnership with those keys.
A typewriter does not spot a typo, does not suggest synonyms, would not do cut and paste, could not even tolerate more than a couple of errors, yes, but it does not need to be plugged in to that power outlet on the wall either! A laptop, on the other hand, does not mind how many errors you make. It may even be that it actually prefers that you make those errors just to show off that it has become more intelligent than you presently are or ever will be.
In the not-so-distant future, he’s afraid that this typewriter-killer would do all the thinking for him. He’s got it all mixed up whether it’s a good thing? But how could that be a darn good thing, thinking nothing when it is his all, his everything, all that he’s ever been good at?