Half a year ago in Rome, my computer, with all my new work, all my addresses (land and computer), all my passwords, my study of Dante’s Inferno, a couple books, and my most beloved pajamas were stolen. My back-up disk was in the U.S.; I don’t use the Cloud; I had no way to retrieve my passwords; and I wasn’t headed home for months.

Over the following months, I tried to piece things back together on a borrowed computer. Worst was the loss of my new work – pages of a new memoir, which I still don’t know if I can replicate in the way I had written them. In a voice not tainted by frustration.

It’s taken me a long while to buy a new computer and begin to reestablish what I lost.

The strange thing is that in the mix of emotions I felt after the theft, one emotion during the ensuing past months has been a sense that I am lighter than I was before. I’ve felt freedom from the way the computer always wants more of me, wants me to scroll, and read useless clips of news, and order books and clothes, send photos and chat with friends, promote and market myself and my books.

My computer kept telling me to be important — and I’m not. I write poems, essays, and mysteries. Some people like my work, some don’t. I keep writing; I’ve found ways around the theft, but I’m also thankful that because of two thieves, I’ve gotten the monkey off my back.