Welcome to my Internet home.
For a writer of speculative fiction, I am quite the luddite. I drive a car that was built in 1967. I read books made out of paper. Every time my husband's Roomba starts cleaning my floor I get a little spooked, certain that the inevitable robot rebellion that will be the end of humankind is that much closer. To me, the blinking light on the top doesn't say, "CLEAN . . . CLEAN . . . CLEAN," it says "KILL . . . KILL . . . KILL."
But this "Internet" thing seems like it's here to stay. So here I am.